Enemy of my Enemy: Vanguard
by King Steve
Summary: Determined to free his mother from jail, John Connor forges an uneasy alliance with Catherine Weaver to release her and fight Skynet, but both are unaware that forces from the future are gathering. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, but who is enemy, and who is friend?
1. Chapter 1

**_Before I get this started I'd like to take the opportunity to thank RosieMac and Kaotic2 for their continuing time and effort on helping me with this story; both of them have been nothing short of invaluable!_**

* * *

**Enemy of my Enemy: Vanguard**

**Chapter One**

_Boom! Boom! Boom!_

The thunderous, booming report echoed all around him, getting louder and feeling closer with each subsequent repetition. Each one rocked the ground underneath him and the very sound pounded into his skull, threatening to split his cranium in two and bore deep into his brain. Gunfire and explosions played before his unseeing eyes. Blurs of some far-off battle flashed through his consciousness.

_"RPG… incoming!"_

_ "Grenade…" He heard the dull _crump _of an egg-sized projectile leaving its launcher, and the muffled explosion two-thirds of a second later, followed by an eruption of dust and rock. That was all this stupid country was anyway: dust and rocks. He looked to the enemy's position as the cloud of dust and debris fell and started to settle. The target… _was still alive?_ How was that possible?_

_ "He's getting back up!"_

_ "The hell… we need air support, _now!" _The words came out of his mouth but it didn't feel like he was saying them. It was all so… surreal. He watched as the target – well, both targets – stood upright in torn, burnt clothing, their skin blistered and charred, and aimed their weapons._

_ Bang! Bang! Bang!_

_ He saw men fall all around him. One, two, three, four of them, cut down in an instant by gunfire more accurate than a Special Forces sniper. He rolled to his side and felt the snap of a bullet strike where he had just been moments ago. Fragments of rock erupted from the impact and peppered him, stinging his arm where they hit._

_ "Where the hell is our goddamn air support?"_

The scene faded into blackness; the sounds of battle also subsided, ebbing away like the outgoing tide, replaced by a spinning, dizzying feeling of dread and nausea that bubbled its way up from his gut…

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Justin opened his eyes at the sound, his brain only just registering what that noise really was, and groaned at the blinding light that shone down on him. He closed his eyelids, counted down from ten, and then peeled them open once again. It was still glaring but once he'd prepared himself for it, it was a little more bearable. He tried to get up out of bed but the world spun around him, and he was more than a little unsteady on his feet. He took a step forward, slipped on an empty beer bottle on the polished wooden floor and stumbled. He barely caught himself a split second before toppling over completely and landing flat on his face. He noticed the clock next to his bed. 0730: way too early in the morning and he'd had nowhere near enough sleep. He fought the urge to just ignore whoever was knocking on the door and go back to sleep.

_How much did I have to drink last night?_ He knew the answer was: _a lot._ He'd done what all young soldiers the world over, from the days of Alexander the Great and probably even before, had done when returning home from war: he'd went out and gotten shit-faced with his girlfriend and his army buddies. Unfortunately he was now paying the price for the endless amounts of beer, whiskey, and Jager-bombs – the latter of which felt like they were literally going off in his head. Worse still: he could barely remember the sex afterwards, when he and Jennifer got back home.

Groaning in post-inebriated, nauseous agony, he struggled his way into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and ambled his way down the stairs, clutching onto the bannister for dear life lest he trip in his stupor.

Too late, the door had already been answered. Jennifer stood there, looking no worse for wear, and much more presentable than him. He took a moment to stare at that ass and tried to remember some of the things they'd done last night, but nothing came to mind. All he could remember was the dream, the shooting, and the explosions. A voice cut off his train of thought, deep and flat.

"I'm looking for Second Lieutenant Justin Perry," the voice said, devoid of any kind of tone or inflection. Perry finished his descent down the wooden hill and stood behind Jennifer. He looked up at the source of the voice; a man in a black jacket, maybe five-eight, with black hair and a skin tone that indicating he was either Mexican or South American.

"I'm Perry," he said, trying to ignore the brass band playing in his head. He didn't recognise the man, at all, and he had no idea what he wanted. If this was some kind of sales pitch he could get lost; it was Saturday morning, for Christ's sake! "Who are you?"

His answer came not from words but in a single swift motion as the stranger at his door pulled a pistol out from the back of his jeans and aimed it squarely at his face. Bright light flashed from the muzzle, and then everything went dark and silent. He never heard the _crack_ of the gunshot, the thud as he hit the floor, his girlfriend's screams, or the second shot that quieted them. Nor did he see the man casually place the gun back into the waistband of his jeans and walk calmly back to his car.

* * *

Sarah Connor stared at the door in grim anticipation. Father Armando Bonilla had confirmed that he'd passed on her message to her son John and his cyborg protector Cameron, but now he'd also delivered a message from them. _"She is coming."_ She knew very well what that meant. Any second now the alarms would sound, followed by gunfire and screaming from dying guards. Flashes of the police station in 1984 came to mind: would Cameron slaughter these prison guards like sheep, mowing them down mercilessly to get to her cell? Sarah didn't want all those deaths on her conscience. Much as John hated the idea of people dying for him, Sarah knew that sadly, a lot of people back then had died for her – and also for him, by extension. Seventeen police officers killed, including Lieutenant Traxler and his partner who'd looked after her when they'd all thought Kyle Reese was crazy.

The T-800 that had been after her had torn apart the police station and destroyed seventeen families that day. Would Cameron do that too, or would she be more like the other one: all kneecappings and shots to the ass? Sadly, she'd seen Cameron's take on the value of human life that didn't have the name _'Connor'_ attached, and she had a pretty good idea which way Cameron would swing.

"When she comes," Sarah said to Father Bonilla as she stood up and faced the door to her cell, "stay in here. Stay here if you want to live." She curled her fists into balls and started to breathe quicker, getting more blood and oxygen to pump around her body quicker. She knew the moment that door opened and Cameron appeared it would be a mad dash to get out of there, and she'd need every ounce of strength and speed she could muster.

* * *

John Connor sat anxiously in the passenger seat, nervous sweat rolling down his back and sticking the black leather of his jacket to the back of his neck. He felt his heart already racing in anticipation as Cameron drove through the relatively light, mid-afternoon traffic. He kept his face forward, looking out the windshield as they sped towards the prison, but every now and then he'd shift his gaze and look to Cameron. Her stoic, neutral expression betrayed no emotion whatsoever to the outside observer. Although John couldn't see anything on her face, he knew there was more going on in that chip of hers than she let on.

He thought back to earlier on, the evening before when James Ellison had found them, how she'd reacted to his question. _'Will you join us?' What the hell was that supposed to mean?_ Who was this Catherine Weaver, and how did she know Cameron? She must know what Cameron was, but then did that make her friend or foe? The one thing John hated more than his fate, he decided, was not knowing. Secrets and lies had nearly torn his family apart, had almost cost him his life and Cameron's, and now had his mother in jail. He decided he didn't want to be in the dark any more. They were going to have to be straight with each other from now on if this was going to work.

"What did Ellison mean," he turned to Cameron, "when he asked if you'd join them?"

"Nothing." She replied too quickly, her face remained as neutral as ever but her eyes flicked too rapidly away from John back to the road, and he noticed the tone in her voice. It wasn't the same as whenever they usually spoke, not that they'd done much talking over the past few months, he thought to his regret, but enough that he noticed the slight insistent edge in her reply. It meant something, John knew that.

John wasn't satisfied with her answer, and pressed it further. "It's gotta mean something: _'Will you join us?'"_

"It doesn't mean anything," Cameron said, not looking at John as she answered, keeping her eyes firmly on the road and gripping the steering wheel just a little bit tighter, pushing on the gas pedal just a little bit harder. "We'll reach the LA County Jail in four minutes," she added, intent on changing the subject. "I'll get Sarah: you stay in the car."

"I know," John sighed. "Stay out of danger: I'm too important." He noticed how she'd steered them away from Ellison's cryptic message, but he figured he could get her to talk later, once they were safely away from the area. He was determined he wouldn't let it go, though. Whatever it meant, it was important: big enough to have clearly upset her earlier, despite her denying she could feel upset, and big enough for her to change her mind about getting his mother out of jail. What, he wondered, could change her mind so suddenly, so completely like that?

Before he could think it through any further the LA County lockup came into view: a massive concrete penitentiary surrounded by high chain link fences topped with razor wire. "Just drive up to the main entrance," he said. She stopped the car just inside the turning to the jail, and kept the engine running. "Be careful," he told her as he handed her the shotgun, looking at her face for any hint of what was going on in her head. _Illogical_, he knew as soon as the words had come out of his mouth: if Cromartie could wipe out a twenty-man FBI Hostage Rescue Team then Cameron could certainly handle a bunch of pot-bellied, clock-watching prison guards.

Cameron said nothing and took the gun. She reached for the door handle but paused as she noticed something, a car across the street, parked. The engine was off but there were three men inside. She zoomed in on them, automatically altering her vision for long distance viewing, and the car became much closer, much more defined. She spotted a pair of binoculars on the man in the passenger seat, and recognised the barrel of an M4 carbine sticking out from the rear window – the man handling it failing to keep it completely out of sight.

She turned her head in the car and scanned the rest of the area, looking for any other threats. She looked up at the buildings opposite the jail, on the other side of the road, and quickly found what she was looking for: a man with a rifle and scope lay prone on the roof of a laundromat; and another man fifty metres down the road by a bus stop, in a simple brown leather jacket and jeans. She watched him and made a number of observations: in the sixty seconds she'd watched him for, he'd never moved once. His arms remained by his side, fingers unmoving. He never blinked and his mouth never moved, and despite being the only person at the bus stop, he'd chosen to ignore the empty seats and remain standing, his gaze aimed directly at the prison.

* * *

Sarah waited for a few minutes, but nothing happened. No alarm sounded, no shots were fired. "Did she say _when?"_ she asked the Father, who simply shrugged in ignorance. There was no way Cameron would have kept him privy to the details of whatever she had planned.

"They said soon, that's all I know," Bonilla told her, equally confused. Sarah stared at the door, wondering what if anything would appear on the other side. _Maybe,_ she thought._ Maybe I was wrong about Cameron?_ Maybe Cameron had opted for stealth over brute force? It wouldn't be the first time. Sarah conjured up a mental image of a naked prison guard, unconscious and beaten, tied up in a utility closet somewhere with a gag in his or her mouth. Would Cameron arrive at any moment with a set of keys, come to 'transfer' her to 'another cell?'

Finally, she heard sounds on the other end of the door. Someone was stood outside, and they were fiddling with the lock. Sarah prepared to burst out of there, and resolved herself to give Cameron a severe chewing out later on for letting John talk her into such a stupid rescue stunt. They could've been in Mexico by now, safe from the FBI and the police, instead of risking themselves here. No, Cameron was going to listen while she gave the tin miss a piece of her damn mind.

* * *

"We have to go," Cameron said to John. She threw the shotgun onto the back seat, put the car into reverse, and backed out of the prison entrance. She ignored John's protests as she checked the mirrors and put the car into drive again, pulling onto the main road and accelerating as quickly as she could up to the speed limit.

"What the hell?" John looked at her, aghast.

"The prison was under surveillance," Cameron replied. "Three men in a car opposite the entrance, a sniper on the roof of the laundromat, and a T-Triple-Eight at the bus stop." Their truck had tinted windows so the sniper couldn't identify them but they would have been targeted the moment they stepped out.

"I didn't see any of that," John said truthfully. He'd been so focused on getting his mother out of prison he hadn't even thought about anything else. "Wait!" he turned to her, something horrible creeping to mind from the past. "We can't just leave her there: they'll kill her."

Cameron, however, knew better. "If they were going to kill her they would have done so: they were waiting for us." Her answer did nothing to ease John's concerns though, and she could see that he needed reassuring. "We won't leave her," she promised him.

To John, however, it certainly felt like they were doing just that, but he knew she was right. "Kaliba?" he gulped, even more nervous now than he'd been five minutes ago.

"Kaliba," she nodded. Cameron was careful not to betray anything on her mind. Things had changed again; her plans had to be altered. It was a hindrance to her mission, to what she knew minutes ago she'd had to do. Until James Ellison had relayed his message to her from Catherine Weaver her intention had been to leave the United States with John, escape the authorities and to better protect him.

Sarah's own message relayed through the chola was clear in her mind. _Don't think about me, don't come for me. Just go. You are to make sure that he does. _Sarah had entrusted John to her, and she had planned for them to drive south to Mexico, until Ellison had intervened and rapidly changed her plan with four little words. Now, with the jail under Kaliba surveillance, her priority had changed again. She knew that wasn't right: her priority was and would always be John. Her mission remained the same, but how she would carry it out had been in constant flux over the past twenty-four hours. Despite the disruption to her plan, Cameron was relieved she wouldn't have to implement it; she knew what John's reaction would have been.

* * *

The door started to swing open and Sarah glared and took a step forward. "I told you to run…" she trailed off as the door opened fully to reveal not Cameron with a gun or in a guard's uniform, but Agent Auldridge, the funny boy, in his suit and flanked by a pair of actual prison guards – neither was Cameron, Sarah noted, not sure whether to be relieved or dismayed. She settled on relieved; unless Cameron was actually a shape shifter like the T-1000, and had forgotten to tell them, there was no possible way any of them could be her.

"Told _who_ to run?" Auldridge asked Sarah, curiosity clear on his face. Was she expecting someone else? He turned to Father Bonilla. "Are you two done?" he asked. He really didn't like it when priests and lawyers came in to speak to prisoners: she could have told him anything, including the whereabouts of her son John and his friend Cameron.

Bonilla looked to Sarah and she nodded. "We're done," she said, and the priest was escorted away by one of the guards and disappeared from sight. The other guard remained, however, and locked the door behind the agent, sealing him in the room with Sarah.

"You're brave," Sarah said to him. "You've read my file; you know what I can do."

Auldridge, however, didn't seem particularly intimidated by her. Yes, he'd read everything about her, and he had no doubts that in a fight she could snap his neck like a twig, but that wasn't going to happen. He pointed up to the camera in the top corner of the room. "I don't doubt you could beat me to death without breaking a sweat, Ms Connor," he said, his voice full of polite dismissal. "But the second you did there'd be guards in here with Tasers and cans of mace." He gestured to the table in the centre of the room. "Shall we?"

Compliantly, Sarah sat herself down at the table, and Agent Auldridge lowered himself into the seat opposite. He placed a file on the table and opened it, taking out a document and handing it to Sarah.

"I'm here to do you a deal," he said to Sarah before she had a chance to read what was in the document. "We're charging you with the murder of Miles Dyson in 1997 and armed robbery in 1999. The murder alone could get you the needle, but nobody wants that." He saw the doubt on Sarah's face and assumed she'd resigned herself to execution. He'd also seen the look on her face as he'd walked into the room, as if she'd been expecting someone else, perhaps a rescue attempt? Strangely, she looked more relieved now than she did when she might have thought she was being rescued, if that's what she'd thought was going on.

"You said something about a deal?" she asked, watching him like a hawk.

"Yes. I want you to confess to the felony-murder of Miles Dyson and the armed robbery. Save the time and expense of a trial and we'll drop the other charges, of which you can see there are many, and we'll talk the judge into a lesser sentence."

That caught Sarah's attention. What the hell kind of lesser sentence could there be for the supposed murder she'd purportedly carried out? "Like what?" she asked, not really caring but she needed to pass the time somehow.

"Twenty-five to life," Auldridge replied. Sensing that she failed to see the lure of such a sentence, he continued. "But we'll drop the charges against your son." He handed her a second document, this one with John's name on it. The list of charges against John was almost as long as hers: assisting in breaking a convicted felon out of a psychiatric institution, accessory to murder, accessory to criminal destruction of property – namely, Cyberdyne and the bank - accessory to armed robbery, and aiding and abetting a known terrorist.

"You'll drop the charges against John?" she asked, the doubt she felt about his offer evident in her voice.

"And the Phillips girl," Auldridge added. "They were just minors at the time and the government doesn't care too much about their charges compared to yours. Sign the confession and we'll drop the charges against them: they'll be free to go. I won't even ask about how none of you seem to have aged: that can be your little secret."

Sarah smiled knowingly; there was no way his offer was genuine. Even if it was, no judge would just let John off the hook so easily. But if John and Cameron weren't breaking her out, then it meant Cameron must have done what she'd asked, and she'd gotten John the hell out. Hopefully they were down in Mexico, or on a plane to somewhere else. Cameron had always talked about Canada, and it was the less obvious choice for them to go to. Hell, she didn't care where they went as long as it was far, far away, where neither the authorities nor machines could get to them.

"Why not," Sarah shrugged her shoulders. It didn't matter any more. She'd either get life without parole, or death. She wasn't sure which she preferred, if she was brutally honest with herself. It didn't really matter: life or death, this would all be gone in a few years, including her. But even her own life didn't matter to Sarah any more. As long as John was safe and Cameron kept him out of harm's way, she didn't care what happened to her. Sarah found herself actually glad that John had Cameron with him. She could keep him safe, and also he wouldn't be alone. She remembered her talk a few weeks ago, where the cyborg had claimed that the only way for John to be safe, truly safe, was to be alone. She still didn't think it was any sort of life, and she didn't like how John responded to the machine. She could see right through John's attempts to bond with Riley Dawson, and to push Cameron away. He'd been fixated on the machine since the moment they'd met. _A mother knows. _She shivered at the thought of what might happen between them now that it would only be the two of them for the foreseeable future – until the bombs dropped and all this was a wasteland. But it was the only way to keep John safe.

Not caring what happened to her, Sarah picked up the pen and signed the confession before handing it back to Auldridge, who put it back in his file and stood up. "Thank you, Sarah," he nodded to her gratefully. "I'll get this to the judge first thing tomorrow morning. They'll want to hear you make a formal guilty plea, of course, but that can wait for now."

She looked up to him as the door opened and the guard came in, put her arms behind her back and cuffed her hands together before starting to lead her out of the room. "What about John?" she asked, turning around to face him again and ignoring the guard's attempts to nudge her forward.

Auldridge shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned he's not a bother to us any more." With that, Sarah allowed herself to be pushed out of the room and led back to her cell. As soon as she was back in and her cuffs released she lay down on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling for several minutes before closing her eyes and resigning herself to her fate. Hopefully it didn't matter whether the charges against John would be dropped or not; with any luck he was long gone and all this was just a moot point. She could only hope.

"Look after him, Cameron." She prayed to any number of deities that she didn't really believe in that the machine would keep him safe.

* * *

The prison rapidly disappeared behind them and Cameron drove on a random route, taking left and right turns with no discernible pattern. A mile and a half away from the prison she turned left off the main road. At the next corner she turned left as well, carefully watching her mirrors to see if any cars were following her. She took a third and fourth left, completing a three-hundred and sixty degree circuit around the block before pulling back onto the main road. A vehicle following them around one corner could be dismissed as coincidence. Two was unlikely but possible. If anyone had followed them around three corners, Cameron knew they would have been after them and would have sped away in an attempt to lose their pursuers, but there was nobody following them. She continued on her way, watching closely the other cars on the road, searching for any vehicles that remained two or three places behind, or stayed driving in the same direction as them. She repeated the round-the-block procedure several times in an attempt to detect anyone following them.

Finally, John broke the silence. He didn't ask what they were going to do now; that could wait until they were in the clear. He didn't ask when they would rescue his mom, as it wouldn't be today and with armed, terminator surveillance watching the prison, they would need to come up with another plan. There was something, however, that still weighed heavily on his mind, and he wanted an answer.

"I want to know," he said, calmly but firmly to her, "what did Ellison mean when he said: _'Will you join us?'"_

Cameron's reaction wasn't what he'd expected, not by a long shot. Instead of tightening her grip on the wheel or avoiding eye contact, she looked straight at him and smiled. "It doesn't matter any more," she told him. This time, however, she could smile genuinely, reassuring both him and herself. Things had changed, and the message was now irrelevant.

* * *

"The chip is too badly damaged," John Henry said to Catherine Weaver as he looked down at the burnt, half-melted Central Processing Unit. It had been treated with a layer of phosphorous that had ignited on contact with oxygen in the air, rendering it little more than a tiny paperweight. John Henry looked down at the CPU in wonder. He knew that a chip like this once controlled the body he now used. He found it fascinating that a computer so small could contain a mind, when the hardware that comprised him was so large in comparison and required a mass of server farms for him to be aware, to be conscious.

"Can you read anything from it?" Weaver asked. She hadn't foreseen that the chip would burn. It had flared so brilliantly, burned so intensely she'd had to drop it, almost losing a small portion of herself to the sheer heat it emanated. It had been short lived and cooled fast, apparently devastating the chip.

"It's unlikely," John Henry replied.

"We'll have to find a way to extract chips without igniting them in future," Weaver said to him. Where one T-888 came from, more would follow. "We need to know what we're up against." She had another issue that needed addressing, and turned to James Ellison, who had been standing in patient silence behind her. "I want you to go back to John Connor, tell him again that I'd like to meet him, and please repeat the message to his cyborg."

Ellison shook his head slowly. Not at the instruction he was given, but rather at the absurdity of it all. John Connor's cyborg, or any cyborg, for that matter. A year ago he'd locked up Dr Silberman in Pescadero for ranting about the machines, Sarah Connor, and the end of the world. Now he himself was up to his neck in it all, and Weaver… how the hell was she so calm about all of this? For her it was just business as usual. He still had his reservations about it all, about John Henry. Was he helping to bring Skynet into the world, or was he trying to teach what could become Skynet about the value of human life? Was he helping to prevent Sarah's nightmares from coming true by playing with and talking to John Henry? The AI definitely didn't seem to be hostile. He was more like a child, filled with wonder at the world. Everything was interesting to him. He couldn't imagine John Henry lashing out, getting angry and trying to kill millions of people, could he?

"I doubt they're there," Ellison said back to Weaver. "They probably left five minutes after I did. One thing I do know about them: they don't like to stay in one place for long."

Weaver couldn't fault that logic. She knew little of John Connor but the tactic Ellison had just described made sense; it would make it more difficult for either the police or terminators to track them down. And for her, she noted. Their habits made it difficult to find them. She took out her cell phone and dialled the number for the motel John and his cyborg had been staying at. She'd had the number all along but believed it more likely to gain their cooperation by sending a familiar face – Ellison. That hadn't worked, clearly, and now she was going to have to be more direct. She waited as the phone rang.

_"Apache Hotel…"_

"Put me through to Room 236," Weaver said to the clerk on the phone.

_"Sorry, Room 236 is vacant."_

She'd believed Ellison's theory but she'd had to investigate, just in case. Still there was a chance. "I'm looking for the young couple who stayed there last night," she added. "Did they say where they were going?"

_"They used automated check out…" _Weaver pressed the cancel button and ended the call, not interested in anything else the person might have had to say.

"Try tracing their cell phones," Ellison said to John Henry. He'd found Sarah's number before so it shouldn't be difficult for him. On the screen behind him a list of phone numbers appeared. The former agent recognised what it was: an itemised phone bill detailing the numbers, dates, times and durations of all outgoing and incoming calls. He was surprised at how many there were for someone who had been in hiding. "Which ones did she call most?"

John Henry quickly reorganised the list and showed the top three cell numbers. "These three numbers account for seventy-two per cent of all calls made and received by Sarah Connor's phone," he added.

"One of those will be John," Ellison said. Both Weaver and John Henry realised what he was doing now, and the latter traced the locations of those three numbers.

"Two of them are in the same location, moving on Highway 14," John Henry announced, "six miles south of Palmdale."

"That'll be them," Ellison agreed. Weaver allowed herself a small smile. She hadn't thought of checking Sarah's cell phone records. It was useful to have a former FBI agent working for her.

"Go back to them," she instructed Ellison. "Tell John I want to speak to him and his cyborg." She had plans for John Connor's machine, and for John as well – though those plans were less immediate than the ones she had for the TOK model.

"Sure," he said with little enthusiasm: he was beginning to feel more like Weaver's errand boy rather than the head of security he officially was, or John Henry's mentor, that he _actually_ was. It was already well into the late afternoon and it'd been a stressful couple of days, what with Savannah's 'kidnapping', and following John and Cameron around last night. He hadn't exactly had a warm reception from either of them before; he'd upset Cameron somehow – and since she was a machine he hadn't even thought that possible, but he'd managed it, and he wasn't looking forward that much to seeing them again, in case they decided he was a threat and chose to do something about it. Still, he'd try.

He turned and started to walk out of the room, when Weaver stopped him. "Remember to repeat my offer again," she reminded him.

_"'Will you join us?'_ I remember," he said. He left the room, took the elevator up to the first basement and got out. He walked into the corridor ahead and took the second door on the left, emerging into the underground employee parking lot. He unlocked his silver Mercedes and got in, started the engine, and was on his way. Judging by their last encounter he didn't expect them to be very happy to see him again.

* * *

The engine chugged and spluttered as the car began to lose power and slow down, much to the anger of the driver. It decelerated from sixty… fifty… then down to thirty and lower as the car, starved of fuel, started to fail. "Come on, not now," Lauren Fields pleaded to the car as if it were a sentient being. She jammed her foot on the gas and was rewarded with a strained roar from the engine and a fraction more momentum. _"Yes!" _she cried out and slapped the dashboard in delight as the car picked up speed.

_Thirty-two… thirty-five… forty… forty-five…_ Lauren couldn't help the look of glee on her face, even though she knew such a victory was temporary. She looked over her shoulder to the tiny mass bundled in blankets behind her, secured snugly into a cradle strapped tight to the rear seat. As safe as any baby could be, given the circumstances; which was hardly safe at all.

Lauren looked down at the roadmap perched on her lap and kept her foot on the gas, trying to feed enough of the last drops of fuel into the engine to keep it going. Looking at the map they only had five miles to go until they reached the next gas station. She could make five miles on fumes.

The car lurched and lost power, reminding her that both she and the car had been running on fumes for several miles already. _"No!" _she screamed in frustration as the engine stalled and died. The car rolled to a stop on the dirt road bisecting a massive cornfield. Swearing and cursing the car, she turned the key again. The engine struggled and Lauren stamped her foot down on the gas, hoping to put some life back into the car. It didn't work. She tried once more with the same result before she gave up and pushed her door open. _No good. _She knew that wherever they were going it would have to be on foot.

Her seatbelt detached with a quiet _click_ and she was out of the car in an instant. She pulled out the revolver, pushed aside the rotating cylinder, and checked all chambers were loaded. The moon was three-quarters full so despite being in the dead of night she had just enough light to check it. In one smooth, practised motion she slid the gun back in the waistband of her cargo pants. The barrel dug into her right ass cheek and the handle into the small of her back, and not for the first time she wished she'd bought a holster for the thing.

She opened the rear passenger door just behind where she'd sat seconds ago, and quickly undid the buckles that held little Sydney in place. She picked up her little sister and held her close to her chest with her left arm. With her right she picked up her rucksack, complete with food for herself and formula for her sister.

Headlights lit up in the distance, maybe a mile away and getting closer. Dread filled Lauren from head to toe and she nearly burst into tears. _Don't these things ever quit?_ She already knew the answer to that, as had been explained so thoroughly by Sarah and Cameron – she wished she had a machine of her own at that moment, instead of just a handgun and a bag of baby formula. Lauren quickly disappeared into the cornfield and ran as fast as her weighed down body could carry her through the rows and rows of corn that were thankfully taller than her. She ran in zigzag patterns, dashing straight ahead for ten or fifteen feet then changing direction like a hare trying to escape a fox. Except she knew this fox would never get tired, never change its mind and go after another target, and would never give up the chase.

She didn't know how far she'd covered before she heard the sounds of the car pulling up, probably next to where hers had ran out of gas and broken down. She slowed her pace down to a walk. She knew how good those things' hearing was and she didn't want it to be able to home in on the rustling from her bulling her way through cornrows. Lauren stopped for a moment to catch her breath and listen out for the machine. She wondered for a moment if she should just stay where she was: if she was quiet enough then maybe the machine wouldn't find them; maybe it'd assume she'd gone through the field and would run out the other side in a futile pursuit.

_That's not how they work_; an inner voice that sounded a hell of a lot like Sarah said to her. She knew she couldn't just huddle there and hope it'd go away, she needed to escape, to get Sydney out of there.

In that moment Sydney cried out, screaming and wailing. Lauren's hand snapped up and covered her little sister's mouth, stifling her cry. _"Shit!" _There was no way the machine wouldn't have heard that. _It's almost a cliché,_ she thought; a crying baby giving them away, like the plot of a bad horror movie. She shrugged off the pack, pulled out her revolver and ran. It didn't matter which direction, she just picked one at random and sprinted with everything she had. Her legs burned from the effort as she pushed herself as hard as she could go, ignoring the fact that within seconds her lungs were on fire. None of that counted; she just held Sydney tight to her and smashed her way between the giant stalks of corn. It didn't matter the noise she made: Sydney had already given them away and now speed was more important than stealth.

She sprinted as fast and as hard as she could, faster than she'd ever moved before, fear and adrenaline pushing her beyond her normal limits. She had to get out of there, had to save Sydney. Through the rustling and cracking of corn stalks she could hear more noise behind her as the machine ploughed through the same plants, literally breaking several of them in half with sheer momentum.

A second later something stung her in the back, followed an instant after by a loud _crack, _and she lost her balance. Somehow she managed to keep hold of Sydney on the way down, and turn herself so she landed on her side. Lauren tried to get back up but white hot pain tore through her back and her stomach. She instinctively reached back and felt where the pain was coming from, and when she brought her hand back it was slick and covered in blood. In the darkness, illuminated only by the moon shining high in the sky, the blood looked black, almost like oil. She could feel warmth and wetness on both her back and her stomach, and she didn't need to look down to realise the bullet had gone straight through.

Stomping footsteps grew closer and Lauren raised the revolver. Even that was a struggle. She felt cold and the gun felt heavy in her shaking hand, and she knew she was going into shock. Corn stalks rustled and moved aside a few feet away, revealing the shape of the machine that was almost on them. Lauren knew it was useless to try and crawl away; she wouldn't make it three feet before it got to them. She couldn't escape and there was nowhere to hide Sydney. She only had one choice. With a redoubled effort she raised the gun again and pointed it at the approaching shape. She fired, once; twice… she kept pulling the trigger, grimacing at the loud report that battered her ears, until the gun clicked empty.

Still the shape continued inexorably toward them. Lauren struggled to reach into her pocket for more rounds, but it was too late.

The terminator – in the guise of a tall, muscular, bearded man in his forties – appeared through the nearest row of corn, weapon in hand. Out of options, Lauren curled up into a ball around Sydney, instinctively shielding her sister with her own body. She sobbed quietly and closed her eyes, not wanting to see what was about to happen. Sydney cried again as blood from the exit wound flowed onto her, covering the infant. In her mind's eye she could picture the machine stood over them, pointing its own gun down at her.

She felt the shots before she heard them. Hot metal ripped through her body and shredded her insides into mincemeat. She groaned in agony, somehow still conscious. She felt a boot push her shoulder, forcing her onto her back, and the contact of the dirt on her wounds added to the pain. She wasn't sure how she was still alive. She tried to move but to no avail, and she briefly wondered, in her shock-induced semi-stupor, if one had hit her spine. She opened her eyes to see the terminator, its weapon aimed straight at her. Once again she screwed her eyes shut. Another shot rang out and something warm and wet spattered Lauren in the face. It took a second for her to realise she wasn't dead. The bullet hadn't hit her, and Sydney was now silent. _But that meant…_

It hit her like a freight train. Even if she could have moved a muscle, Lauren wouldn't have dared look down at what was left of her sister. She tried to scream out in anguish but all that came was a strained gurgle as blood started to pool in the bottom of her lungs. She opened her eyes again and found her vision was blurry and obscured by red viscera clinging to her eyelids. The machine was now crouched over her and placed its fingers on her carotid artery.

She could almost read its mind: it was checking her vitals to see if she would survive her injuries or not. She didn't care. She'd lost her sister, her mom and her dad. Nothing mattered anymore. The machine rose back up off its haunches, holstered its gun, and started to turn away.

"H… hey!" she croaked pathetically, struggling to raise her head to look at the thing that had murdered her sister. She hated it even more, that it was just going to leave her there to suffer – even if she survived, she'd have to live with the loss of Sydney. "Kill me," she pleaded with the machine. "Please… ki… kill… me. I've got… nothing… left."

The machine turned around to face her, but made no move to come back towards her. "You're not the target," it said to her, both face and voice blank and devoid of any emotion. If it was happy about killing her sister then it showed no outward sign of it.

_Bastard._ But then, she realised, she was never the target: it was all about Sydney, it always had been. She wasn't even important enough to finish off. She could imagine what it was thinking: she'd be dead soon enough anyway. Even with proper medical treatment she figured her chances would be slim. Her sister – the poor, innocent target of the machine – was dead, and terminating her would be a waste of time and/or ammunition.

"You'll expire in ten to fifteen minutes," the machine informed her as it walked away, leaving Lauren Fields sobbing, bleeding to death and cradling the remains of her baby sister – a child targeted because of a freak mutation that rendered her immune to some bioweapon in the future. And she'd failed to keep her safe. _Ten to fifteen minutes, _Lauren repeated the machine's words in her head as anguished tears flowed freely from her eyes. It was ten to fifteen minutes too long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

John shivered slightly and tossed a few more broken-off pieces of branch into the fire Cameron had made, hoping to get a little more warmth into his body. The temperature had dropped as the sun had set; now it was fully dark, the air was uncomfortably chilly and his leather jacket didn't do much to keep his body heat in, even zipped all the way up.

"Don't put any more wood in," Cameron said after he'd dropped another broken branch into the flames. She wanted to keep the fire low so that nobody on the road would see it and come to investigate. It had been her decision to sleep out in the forest overnight, rather than risk checking into another motel and being recognised.

"I know," John said, wrapping his arms around himself to try and keep warm. He leaned back against the large tree behind them and shivered a little bit. "We don't want to be seen," he echoed Cameron's thoughts. He couldn't fault her decision to stay out in the woods, but he did wish they could have at least bought a tent or sleeping bags or something. His stomach rumbled hungrily, reminding him he hadn't eaten for half the day. They'd passed a number of gas stations on the way but they'd all had CCTV and Cameron had been reluctant to risk their being caught on camera.

Cameron heard John's rumbling stomach though, and although she knew he could cope – he was young, strong, and he would endure periods of starvation much longer than half a day in the future – she could also see his discomfort, and immediately wanted to minimize it. "I can get you food," Cameron offered, turning to look at her charge.

John looked around and then gave her an expression of doubt. "I think you scared off all the wildlife, if you're thinking of hunting something." He hadn't seen or heard any sign of life since they'd parked away from the road and into the forest; dogs and cats were afraid of terminators; he figured it'd make sense for other animals to be able to sense what they were too. Only humans were fooled, it seemed.

"I probably did," Cameron agreed with him. "I meant the last gas station we passed."

"Wasn't it you that said it was too much of a risk?"

"For you," Cameron said. She was confident she could buy some food and leave without anyone recognising her. And she could always disable the cameras. John thought about it for a moment. He _was _hungry, but he knew it was too much of a risk still. _Besides, _he thought, he needed to get used to this kind of thing.

"Do we do this a lot? In the future?" he asked. This seemed like the sort of thing they'd do: hiding out in the woods, surviving.

"Not in the open," Cameron said. "HKs can see body heat."

"Even under all these trees?"

"Police helicopters can do that now: HKs do it better. You spend most of your time underground."

John frowned, disappointed. "That sucks." He remembered his mom's tapes, how he'd listened to them almost religiously until she'd been declared insane and thrown into Pescadero. He remembered most of what she'd said. _'You'll have to stay down by day, underground, and move around at night._' There was so much on those tapes, a great deal of it about how fast and strong the machines were, and how they felt nothing at all. But when John looked to Cameron, when he thought about how she'd reacted to Ellison the night before, he found himself realising that wasn't quite true. What was it she'd said? _I wouldn't be worth much if I couldn't feel._ He'd dismissed it at the time, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. What still confused him was what Ellison had said to upset her – even though she'd denied that she ever could be upset. John didn't know much about women, but he knew when they said they were fine they were often anything but, and Cameron's _'I can't be upset, I'm just a machine'_ sounded a lot to him like the cyborg version of _'I'm fine.'_

"I want to know what Ellison meant earlier," he said to her, intent that this time he wasn't going to let the matter drop. "Why did he upset you?"

Cameron's response, John thought, was fairly predictable. "I can't be upset, I'm-"

_"Bullshit,_ Cameron!" John snapped. "I know what I saw, and I want to know why."

Cameron held his gaze for a moment, as she found herself, surprisingly, lost for words. They seemed to have started to repair the relationship between them. He trusted her again, spent time with her – teaching her and allowing her to also teach him – and his trust made it easier for her to protect him. The truth could push him away again, make him angry. She didn't want that, but at the same time she could tell he wasn't going to stop asking her about it.

"I'd rather tell you later," Cameron said to him. That was a lie: she would prefer to never tell him, and if she could avoid doing so, then she would. She saw John shiver again and moved herself closer to him. She pulled John to her and wrapped an arm around him, pressing her body to his.

"What're you doing?"

"Sharing body heat," Cameron replied simply.

"Huh," John said. She was warm to the touch, and as she draped her leg over him he could feel the heat emanating from her. _No wonder she can fool people,_ he thought, recalling how she'd snuck right under his radar back in New Mexico. He wouldn't have guessed she was a machine.

In a matter of minutes John started to feel warmer. He'd stopped shivering, something Cameron noticed consciously, but for John, he just felt a lot more comfortable now. Cameron remained perfectly still, sensing John's pulse and breathing slowing. He was tired and needed sleep. "How're we gonna get mom out of jail?" he asked. He was fresh out of ideas and it tore him up inside that he couldn't free his own mother.

"We can't do anything while the prison's being watched."

John had figured she'd say as much. If it were just people then she could have still gone in, but the T-888 had given them both pause for thought. And although he didn't know it, he was thinking the same thing about the situation as Cameron: they didn't know if it was just one Triple-Eight. It was clearly operating with a human team; who was to say they didn't have another one somewhere?

"We need to check out the jail," he told her. "See how many people or machines are watching it."

"It's too dangerous," Cameron said. She knew John wanted to break Sarah out of the county jail but there was too much risk involved. "If they see us they'll try to kill you." They would have to change their car and find a way to get inside undetected by either the guards or the team monitoring the prison. It was close to impossible. "I won't risk you," she added.

Cameron snapped her attention away from John to a noise approaching them. With reflexes only a terminator could possess she jumped up to her feet and drew her shotgun. A moment later John had his Beretta in hand and aimed in the same direction as Cameron. It was pointless to direct it anywhere else: wherever she had her gun trained was the target.

"What is it?" he asked Cameron. His eyes never left the sights of his pistol. The sound grew closer until even John could hear it. Footsteps, and from the sound of twigs crunching underfoot and leaves rustling, it was someone who wasn't used to walking through the woods and didn't know how to do so quietly, or worse, someone or _something _that just didn't care.

Former-Agent James Ellison stepped into their view, his hands up the moment he saw the two guns trained on him. "I'm not armed," he told them.

"Hands above your head," Cameron snapped at him harshly, deliberately making her tone as cold and mechanical as possible. She found it helped when maintaining control over humans. Ellison complied and kept his hands where they could both see them. John kept his gun trained on Ellison as Cameron put her shotgun down and approached. She ran her hands under his armpits, across his chest, stomach, groin and the insides of his legs.

When she'd done his front she spun him around and shoved him against a tree. Ellison closed his eyes and waited for the cold press of steel against the back of his head before she pulled the trigger. But that didn't happen. Instead, Cameron resumed frisking him roughly, checking his back as well as behind his legs and finally, his ankles.

Once she was satisfied he was unarmed she picked up her weapon, nodded to John and he lowered his gun. Cameron pointed hers just slightly away from Ellison, but not so far as to be reassuring. She didn't want him to feel comfortable or welcome.

"What do you want?" John glared at him.

Ellison turned to face Cameron and tried not to look as nervous as he felt around her. "Catherine Weaver's asked me to repeat the message again: _Will you join us?"_

"Does that mean just her or both of us?" John asked. He turned to Cameron; despite the fact she could usually control her facial expressions, he could tell that once again she wasn't happy. Before anyone could say or do anything, a phone started to ring. Ellison reached for his pocket but paused, waiting for their approval. John nodded, so he pulled his cell phone out. He immediately recognised who was calling before he even answered it.

"I'm with them now," he said, his comment earning a startled look from John and a glare from Cameron. Ellison held his hand up to try and reassure John; the boy looked like he was about to make a run for it any second. He listened for a few moments then handed the phone to Cameron. "Catherine Weaver wants to talk to you." Cameron took the phone and placed it to her ear. Weaver started speaking before Cameron said anything.

"_Has Mr Ellison repeated the question to you?"_

"He has," Cameron answered blankly. "The answer is no," she repeated the message she'd heard from 'Weaver' the last time they'd communicated. "I won't leave John alone," she insisted. She hung up the phone and passed it back to Ellison. "Leave us," she instructed him. A moment later her own phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the screen. She didn't recognise the number but she answered it.

_"I'm going to-"_ Cameron ended the call on her phone. Weaver hadn't keyed two numbers. As far as Cameron was concerned, any calls without them went ignored. She then crushed her phone and threw away the remains. Neither John nor Ellison saw where it landed, she'd hurled the cell phone that far.

John's phone rang next. "Don't answer it," Cameron said in vain as he picked it up.

"Hello?"

_"John Connor: it's good to finally talk to you."_

"Listen," he started, not at all in the mood for pleasantries. "Catherine Weaver, is it? I don't know what you're trying to do, but Cameron's not joining you. We don't even know who you are."

_"Your cyborg knows. Perhaps you should ask her."_

That did it for John. Why the hell did everyone have to be so damn cryptic? Why couldn't anyone just give a straight answer any more? "I'm asking _you: _why do you want Cameron to join you, and why did that upset her so much?"

There was a pause before Weaver replied to his question. _"Come to ZeiraCorp, Mr Connor, and we'll explain everything. If you want to get your mother back you'll need our help."_

"And this… _John Henry?_ Savannah's friend who lives in the basement: is he there too?"

_"He is, and he'd like to meet you, as would I: we have a lot to talk about." _The line went dead. John tried to redial but got sent immediately to voicemail. He wasn't sure what to make of that; the woman was so cold, so… arrogant. It was like she held all the cards and she knew it, and had no problem reminding others of the fact.

"This is the woman you stole Cromartie's body for?" John asked Ellison, simply nodded, not wanting to incriminate himself further. John just shook his head in disbelief. "After everything you've seen, everything you know is true… and you just hand over a _terminator_ to this woman: who the hell is she, anyway?" He paused for a moment before holding Ellison with a cold stare. "I should've let Cameron kill you."

Cameron glanced towards John, satisfied now he'd realised she had been right not to trust Ellison. Sarah might have said _'I told you so' _but Cameron said nothing; the fact that John had learned was enough, and nobody liked a nag.

"Savannah told me about her friend with a cord in the back of his head who lives in the basement," John continued, "do you want to tell me what the hell that's all about?"

Ellison dry-swallowed, knowing what he said now could get him another beating from Cameron. He looked to the machine and reckoned he could see that intent in her eyes. She'd do it without hesitation or remorse, and this time he wasn't sure if John would stop her. He breathed in, composing himself, before he made his reply. "John Henry's an artificial intelligence developed by ZeiraCorp."

"And you've been teaching it things," Cameron said, remembering what John had told them about his conversation with Savannah. "What things?"

When Ellison didn't answer right away, John raised his pistol again and aimed it straight at Ellison's chest. _"What things?" _he snapped, murder in his eyes. If Ellison was helping to build Skynet he'd kill the bastard right here, right now.

"Morals," Ellison answered simply. "Ethics: the value of human life. I taught him the Ten Commandments." That took John aback; he hadn't been expecting that answer. He knew Ellison had come around a while ago and realised what had really been going on. Was he crazy enough to think he could just walk into Skynet's lair with a few bible stories and try to change it, make it good? John turned his attention to Cameron, who'd kept her shotgun pointed at the ground. _Why isn't she worried?_

"We need a moment," John said to Ellison, lowering his gun. The former-agent simply nodded and walked away from them. When John judged he was out of earshot, he turned to Cameron. "You know who this Weaver is." It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

"Yes," Cameron admitted. She knew John wouldn't let her distract him or change the subject again.

John breathed slowly, and for the moment set aside the fact that Cameron hadn't told him this. It wasn't the first time she'd withheld information and unfortunately, he doubted it would be the last. He wasn't too happy about it but there wasn't much he could do right now except focus on the topic at hand. "How?"

Cameron decided she wasn't going to lie to him about it any more. "In the future you learnt of a third faction in the war."

_"Third faction?"_ John's eyes widened at this new revelation. He was glad now Cameron hadn't gotten him any food; if he'd been eating when she'd said that he was sure he would have choked. "What third faction?"

"Machines," she started, "terminators that defected from Skynet. You sent a submarine to retrieve a package containing one of those machines and bring it to Serrano Point, to negotiate an alliance. The crew disobeyed orders and opened it: people died and the machine told the Executive Officer that the answer was _'No'._ You'd asked them the question: '_Will you join us?'"_ She wasn't going to add anything beyond that. She knew what Catherine Weaver's question meant and what it would have meant for her if they'd been able to free Sarah.

Things started to add up for John as he joined together the pieces of what Cameron had told him, and his skin crawled as he realised what that meant. "Catherine Weaver's a machine."

"Yes."

"And she wants to meet with me; how do I know she won't kill me on sight?"

Cameron had the answer for that question. "She knows where we are: if she wanted to kill you she wouldn't have sent Mr Ellison."

_Fair enough, _John mentally shrugged. When it came to terminators Cameron knew her stuff better than any of them. He'd trust her judgement. "Should we meet with her?" There were few times he'd seen Cameron hesitate before answering a question, and this was one of them. He could see she genuinely wasn't sure what to say. John made up his own mind. There was only so much they could do hiding in the forest, running from motel to motel and staying concealed. And he wasn't going to let his own mother rot in jail. If this Weaver had some way of breaking her out then he was going to hear it.

"Ellison!" he called out into the woods. A few seconds later the man returned. John noticed for the first time that he was still wearing a suit; fine for the streets of LA but his shoes and pants had been ruined. "Tell Ms… Weaver we'll be there tomorrow."

Ellison walked away, back to his car; John waited until the man was completely out of earshot then turned to Cameron. A few seconds later she confirmed that she couldn't hear him either: he was gone.

"What are you thinking?" Cameron asked.

"I'm thinking we go there with Semtex and thermite: if anything smells bad we blow her AI to robot-hell." Cameron nodded her assent. She knew it wouldn't come to that, but John would not be convinced to go to meet Catherine Weaver unarmed. "Is there anything else I should know?" John asked.

There was one more detail and she knew John wouldn't react well when he found out. It was better that she tell him now. "She's a T-1001: mimetic poly-alloy."

_"Liquid metal,"_ John barely whispered, his skin crawling as he said it. Images flashed in his mind's eye of the monster they'd struggled against three years before: the _thing _that had nearly killed him and his mom, slaughtered his foster parents and who knew how many others, and had devastated his T-800 protector. He couldn't even count the number of times oozing, silvery liquid metal had infected his dreams and rendered him screaming, gasping at night in a freezing cold sweat; unable to go back to sleep for fear of seeing those razor-sharp blades turned on him, cutting him to pieces, skinning him alive and gutting him like a fish…

One of those things was here, in this time, and it wanted to meet with him. Ice crept up John's spine and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He shuddered again and this time it had nothing to do with the cold outside.

* * *

Downtown Los Angeles, the commercial district, had always seemed imposing to John. He'd always preferred the more rural areas and small towns he and his mom had sometimes set up in. West Fork in Nebraska, with Charley, had been one of his favourites, beside Dejalo and South America. He knew one advantage of a big city was its anonymity: he, his mom, and Cameron were just three more faces blending into a vast sea of humanity. He still didn't like it, though: especially the city centre.

The skyscrapers towered over them and gave John a feeling that they were being boxed in, that if they went in too far they'd be trapped. The fact that all it would take was one traffic cop to recognise them and it could actually come true made it all the worse.

The feeling didn't go away as the ZeiraCorp tower came into view. Far from it; he felt even more caged in, and as they drew up close he continued the habit of a lifetime and started looking for exits. There was the entrance to the parking lot, which Cameron was now signalling that they were about to turn into. John also clocked the main entrance and a fire exit to the side of the building. Three exits that he knew about: given the size of the building that didn't seem like a lot, especially when there was a liquid metal monster inside that might very well decide to cut him in half on sight. Despite Cameron's reassurance the night before, he couldn't quell the rising knot of fear in his stomach.

John looked down at his phone and read the text Ellison had sent them this morning; a password to get them through security. _This is it,_ he thought as Cameron eased them up into the parking lot's entrance and everything dimmed outside as they were cut off from the sunlight, making John even more ill at ease. He looked to Cameron and saw her usual stoic face. He couldn't tell exactly, since she was so hard to read, but he didn't think she was particularly looking forward to this either. Cameron had refused the repeated requests that she join her, and John had a feeling that nobody said no to a liquid metal terminator if they knew what was good for them.

She drove up to the security gate in the underground parking lot and lowered her window. John kept his face forward in case the guards recognised him and decided to claim a reward. John noticed that there were a number of large concrete dividers positioned in the parking lot, and security personnel positioned behind them armed with submachine guns. He counted five men behind three of the blocks, plus a sixth man who came from the side of the gate to challenge them.

"Who are you?" the guard asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

"We're here to see Catherine Weaver."

"You got an appointment?" the guard inquired, apparently not recognising them. His hand wandered down to the MP7 submachine gun hanging by a strap on his shoulder.

"Cromartie," Cameron replied, reciting the password Ellison had given them to get through.

"Wait here," the guard said as he picked up his radio and spoke into it.

"Seems like a lot of security here," John said quietly to Cameron. "What kind of tech company needs armed guards like this?" They weren't the typical kind of clock-watching, pot-bellied glorified mall cops he'd expected, either. He noticed they were wearing body armour, and they all looked lean, tough and fit. _Ex-military,_ he immediately thought. Clearly ZeiraCorp had something to hide.

The guard came back to them. "Park on the left," he pointed to a row of bays a few metres down from the gate and motioned for the other security personnel to let them through. Cameron drove into a bay and she and John got out. Two of the men approached them, hands on their weapons but not pointing them at anyone yet.

"Can we go in?" John asked.

"We're waiting for the boss to come and confirm who you are," a second security guard replied with a heavy South African accent.

"It's a lot of security for a tech company," John voiced his thoughts from a moment before.

"Some kind of attack yesterday, man," he answered, but he gave no clue as to what that attack might have been. John's first thought, despite what Cameron had told him, was some kind of resistance cell. He'd sent Derek Reese and his team back, maybe he'd sent others, too. The South African guard brought out a metal detector and scanned it over them. It beeped loudly and the other men raised their weapons towards them. "Hands in the air!" he screamed at the pair of them.

"Easy." John raised his hands up to his shoulders and did his best to look non-threatening. Cameron stepped between the armed man and John and closely examined his trigger finger as well as his facial responses. It was unlikely he would shoot unless either she or John moved; if he did she would take the bullet and proceed to kill them all. Alliance or not; she wouldn't tolerate any threat to him.

"On the ground, _now!"_ one of the other guards yelled at her. Cameron simply stared at him and made no move to comply. Unfortunately one of the other guards had his weapon trained on John from his side; she couldn't protect him from all angles at once.

Cameron snatched the gun from the South African's grip before he could react and backhanded him in the temple with the pistol, using the momentum of her arm to carry her in a 200-degree spin to point it straight at the guard holding John at gunpoint; the man's aim shifted from John to her but he was too slow. She squeezed the trigger and released a burst at the man's chest.

The rounds struck him square in the breastbone and he fell to the ground, groaning. He was alive; Cameron had aimed for the strongest points of the body armour and he was merely dazed with probable bruised or even broken ribs but he would survive. He didn't know it but his shifting aim from John to her had saved his life; she'd initially targeted his brainstem but at the last second had seen what he was doing and lowered her weapon; he was no threat to her.

She pulled her own gun out from the back of her jeans and now aimed both weapons at two of the remaining upright guards. John had his Beretta out and pointing at a third, leaving the fourth man by the gate, training his gun on Cameron.

"Cool it," John called out. "We're not here to cause trouble: we gave you the damn password: _'Cromartie,'"_ he repeated.

"Passwords don't mean squat when you come in here with concealed weapons," one of the guards growled. "Put them down or we'll put _you_ down."

John paused for a moment and dropped his gun to the ground. It had gone too far already. "Do as he says," he told Cameron as he placed his hands behind his head.

Cameron complied, slowly lowered her weapons and tossed them a few feet away, seeing they had no choice. Three of the four security guards approached with their MP7s still aimed at them. "On the floor!" one of them screamed at the pair of them. They both followed the command and lay down on their front. John felt a pair of cuffs being fastened against his wrists. They were put on too tight and he winced as they dug into his skin. He looked across at Cameron receiving the same treatment and he stifled a laugh; all he had to do was say the word and she'd rip those cuffs apart like they were toilet paper. But she showed no sign of that; he figured she wouldn't unless he told her to or she sensed his life was in immediate danger. But for now she was following his order at least.

Once they were both cuffed the guards frisked them down; it took only seconds before they found the can of thermite on Cameron and the semtex in his pockets. "What the hell is this?" one of them asked, incredulous.

"Goddamn terrorists," another added. He spat down at John and prodded him in the side with his boot. "Hope you'll like Guantanamo, dickhead!"

"I'll call the cops!" the South African said as he struggled to his feet.

"That won't be necessary." The sound of Ellison's voice drew all their attention to him. He walked up to the scene and looked at John and Cameron. "Are you always this good at making friends, John?" he asked rhetorically. He turned to the South African guard, "Let them go."

"Are you crazy, man? They just came in here packing guns and semtex."

"Ms Weaver _invited _them here," Ellison said to them. "Remove their cuffs and I'll take them in." The guards grudgingly did as they were told and released John first. Cameron allowed them to remove her cuffs and she went to John to make sure he was okay.

"Confiscate their guns, though," Ellison added to the guards. "You won't need them," he said in a lower tone to John and Cameron. They left the guards to collect the weapons and explosives left behind. "Do either of you have any other weapons on you?" he asked them.

"Just me," Cameron said. She ignored the muttered threats the guards made to her and John.

Ellison turned his attention back to the guards. "This incident never happened: understand?"

"No, I don't understand," one of them snapped back. "You're the head of security but you're letting a pair of freaks who came here with guns and explosives inside: why the hell aren't we calling the cops?"

"Is that what you want?" Ellison asked him. "Do you want to tell the police how two of you were floored by an eighteen-year-old, hundred-and-ten-pound girl?" He let them mull it over for a few seconds, knowing what they'd be thinking: if anyone knew they'd been bested by a teenage girl none of them would ever work in security again. They relented and went back to their posts, muttering in contempt.

The three of them walked up a flight of steps into the building proper, then Ellison led them down a corridor and into an elevator. Neither John nor Cameron said a word on the trip up, and Ellison found the silence more than a little awkward. He thought of saying something to try and break the tension – something he'd been good at as an FBI agent, trying to build a rapport with suspects to get them to be more cooperative – but with John Connor and his cyborg, he had no idea what to say. He couldn't read Cameron's face and John looked like a coiled viper ready to strike. Ellison would much rather be somewhere – _anywhere_ – else right now.

However much he felt that, he couldn't have known how much John shared that sentiment, felt it much more strongly than Ellison possibly could have. As they approached Catherine Weaver's office – made obvious by the fact the door had _Catherine Weaver, CEO_ stencilled on it, John found himself shaking in fear, knowing what was on the other side.

Again, images of the monster dressed as a cop flashed through his mind, and he reached for the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans then remembered the guards had taken it from him. He brought his hand back around and saw it was trembling.

"You okay?" Ellison asked John as he reached the door and started to open it.

"Give us a minute," Cameron told him. Ellison went inside and she could hear him telling Weaver they were here. She ignored their muffled conversation and focused on her charge. She reached out and touched the inside of his wrist with the tips of her fingers, scanning him. His pulse was approaching 100 beats a minute, his blood pressure and temperature had increased, and he was sweating a lot. She ran her hand up his arm to his shoulder and held it there as she looked him in the eye. "I won't let anything happen to you," she said.

John took a deep breath in, trying to calm himself down. It was hard, knowing what was waiting for him in that office, possibly waiting to cut his throat or run a spike through his brain. Part of him tried to imagine what that would feel like; would it be quick, or would he feel it all? "If she wanted you dead," Cameron reminded him, "she'd have killed you last night."

After a minute John started to calm down and he got himself more or less under control. "I hope you're right," he sighed. Cameron opened the door and stepped inside first, not bothering to knock. She knew Weaver would have heard them and was expecting them. John followed a moment later, and he saw the red-haired woman sat on a couch, staring at him haughtily as if they were late back with her dry cleaning.

"John Connor." Weaver stood up and approached him. She held out her hand for him to shake, and after a moment's hesitation, he returned the gesture. _So far so good,_ he said to himself. She hadn't stabbed him in the eye or cut his hand off. _She's really cold, though._ In fact, she was frigid to the touch: nothing like the warmth that had emanated from Cameron. Besides that, though, her hand felt surprisingly real. He'd thought it'd be like touching metal, but despite the coldness of her touch it felt exactly like human skin. _How do they do that?_ he wondered.

"Well, as you can see, I haven't killed you, nor do I intend to," Weaver said to him. She walked to another section of her office, where her desk and computer was located, and invited John and Cameron to sit in the two visitors' chairs, while she settled down into hers. Cameron declined the seat and remained on her feet. Ellison stood behind the desk, to Weaver's side and ended up standing directly opposite Cameron, indicating already the divide between them.

"So maybe you could tell us exactly why we're here," John replied, earning a smile from Weaver that he found downright unsettling.

"I appreciate a man who has no time for pleasantries," she said amicably to him. "First of all, I'd like to thank you two for rescuing my daughter Savannah." It took a supreme act of will for John not to say he knew the girl wasn't really her daughter. He looked at Ellison but he stood impassively. _Does Ellison even know what she is?_ He didn't think so.

"The main reason I've invited you here is to discuss our common enemy – an enemy you must know by now cannot be defeated with conventional weapons or conventional means."

"Skynet," John said simply.

"More specifically, the Kaliba Group," Weaver corrected him. "And by extension, Skynet. I know your mother tried to destroy one of their facilities at Desert Canyon Heat and Air, before she was shot and wounded."

"Someone else blew it up," Cameron added.

Weaver smiled again, finding satisfaction in knowing something they didn't. She knew that her knowledge of Kaliba and Skynet extended beyond that of even the TOK stood across from her. "That would be me," she replied. "What you need to understand," she turned to John with unblinking, dead eyes, "is that we're on the same side."

"So what's all this about John Henry – Savannah's friend in the basement?" John asked. Just because this liquid metal hadn't gutted him on sight, it didn't mean he was going to start being best friends with her. He'd trust her as far as he could throw her.

"That brings us to our next topic," Weaver said, irritated that Savannah had told them about John Henry when she'd expressly forbidden her from ever speaking about him to anyone. "We've been developing an AI to use as a weapon against Skynet. You'll save the world someday but you can't do it without our help."

"Why not?" John looked doubtful. "The soldier who came back to protect my mom said we'd already beaten Skynet." He wasn't going to mention his father's name to Weaver. Potential ally or not there was no way he'd ever divulge that to her.

"That might have been true once," Weaver said, "but things have changed." She looked to Cameron. "Have you told him the significance of my message?"

"She did," John said coldly before Cameron could reply. "She said I tried to form an alliance with you, in the future."

Weaver nodded once. "You did and I refused. Your human soldiers were disappointing. As I said: things have changed, and here you are."

Something bugged Ellison about all of this. Weaver knew about the machines, she was building an AI that he'd worried could become the new Skynet and make Sarah Connor's nightmares into a reality. But she'd never mentioned Skynet before, or John and Sarah; she'd made it seem like it was just business. "How do you know about Skynet?"

"She's a machine," John said calmly. He noticed the look of horror, of absolute repulsion on Ellison's face. He knew of the man's religious beliefs and figured Ellison just realised he'd been working with the devil all along.

"You're… _a machine?"_ he echoed John's words in shock, staring at Weaver and backing away from her. He shook his head, unable to believe he'd been so stupid. _Why didn't I realise?_

"A liquid metal terminator," Cameron supplied.

Weaver ignored Ellison's new-found disgust and mistrust in her, and again spoke to John. "I think it's time you met John Henry." She stood up and John did the same. But first I'm going to ask you to leave your weapons here."

John shook his head slowly. "The guards got them on the way in."

Ellison nodded in confirmation to Weaver and she led them out of the room and back into the elevator.

The ride down to the basement was the most uncomfortable experience of Ellison's life. He stood in silence and looked forward at the shiny reflective surface of the elevator wall, unable to look any of them in the eye. Connor was still angry at him; for taking Cromartie, for lying about it, and for what had happened in the movie theatre. Cameron would probably kill him without hesitation if John told her to – and seeing as he clearly still harboured the belief that he was responsible for his mother's incarceration, he figured he had to carefully watch what he said. The same went for Catherine Weaver, he thought. She was a machine, and he didn't know what she was capable of. That, and the fact that she'd lied to him this whole time. He wondered what else she'd lied about.

He felt completely out of his depth. _The boy who saves the world, the cyborg who protects him, another machine building the most advanced AI on the planet to fight their mutual enemy. And me…_ Ellison had never felt so insignificant in his entire life. His three companions in the elevator had the weight of the world on their shoulders. He had no idea why he was even still there or what any of them even wanted with him any more. He couldn't think of a single thing he could bring to the table, or if he even wanted to.

Once they got to the bottom the doors opened and they entered a corridor with bare white walls, illuminated by neon strip lighting. They followed the T-1001 into another room, this one less harshly lit, and John stood before the face that had almost killed him several times over the past year. He'd been expecting this but it was still disturbing.

"Hello," John Henry waved to him and Cameron and smiled back politely. _No,_ John thought. _That's _seriously _disturbing._

"This is John Henry," Weaver made the formal introduction, although none was really necessary.

John noticed Cameron wasn't even looking at John Henry. He'd have thought that the entity now controlling Cromartie's body would have gotten some more interest from her, but Cameron was staring at something else. He followed her gaze to the glass display case containing stacks of computer equipment, and as he looked closer he noticed three dots: red LED lights illuminated on the front of a machine that had been the focus of so much of their effort, and so much of their pain.

"That's the_ Turk,"_ he breathed, hardly able to believe what his eyes were seeing. He turned around to John Henry. "This is you?" he asked. John Henry nodded innocently in response, completely unaware of all the anguish he had unwittingly caused them simply by existing. This was the thing that had been indirectly responsible for everything that had happened: Cameron going bad, the damaged relationship with both her and his mother, the distrust… all of it, for what was now an AI with the face of his would-be killer. He didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or shout out at the absurdity of it all.

"We were looking for the Turk for months," Cameron explained to Weaver. "We were going to destroy it."

"I'm glad you failed," Weaver said, crossing her arms.

"You bought it from Sarkissian?" John asked her.

"Yes, through an intermediary."

"We tried to buy it from him; instead he blackmailed us, blew Cameron up in a car bomb, and tried to kill us."

That made Weaver curious. "And where is he now?" If this man was causing problems that could interfere with what she was trying to achieve, then she had an easy solution to that.

"Dead," John replied.

"No great loss to the world," was Weaver's nonchalant reply. She'd read about the Armenian gangster, wanting to know about the people she did business with, even if it were only indirectly. He was another example of how disappointing humans could be sometimes.

"You took Cromartie's body for this?" John asked Ellison, changing the subject.

"You shouldn't blame Mr Ellison," Weaver told him, "he was following my order. John Henry needed a body for better interaction. Through this machine is the closest he will ever get to being human. It was necessary for his development."

"It's allowed me to play with Mr Ellison, Mr Murch, and Savannah," John Henry added. "It's much more pleasant to talk with you like this than before." John didn't bother asking how John Henry communicated with them before. It wasn't important.

"Why?" John asked. Weaver, John Henry, Cameron… _anyone. _He still didn't get why they had to build an AI like this. _What if he turns into another Skynet?_

"What better weapon to fight an AI, than with another AI?" Weaver answered his question with her own rhetorical one.

The more John thought about it, the more sense it made: another AI could command and control, coordinate forces across a massive area… the possibilities were almost endless. Encrypted, secure radio communications, and maybe even more important: their own machines. Not reprogrammed, but built from scratch. An AI with the right resources, he realised, could turn the Resistance from the underground guerrilla force that his father, Cameron and Derek had described into an actual, properly equipped army. One thing, though, didn't make sense to John.

"Why do you need me, if your AI can do so much?"

"My name is John Henry," the AI interjected. He didn't wish to be treated as an inanimate object.

"I told you before: _you_ save the world. Even with all of our resources we can only do so much. Skynet estimated in 2027 that there were slightly over one hundred million humans remaining. What you lack in efficiency and durability you make up for with numbers. We need an alliance: not just between us, but between humans and machines. The only way that humans can become an effective enough force is with your leadership."

Again, it made sense to John, but now he felt like he had an even bigger weight on his shoulders. Not only would he have to lead the human race, but he'd also be responsible, for what he could only imagine from the whole Jesse incident, would be a very fragile alliance between humans and machines.

"And why do you need Cameron?" John asked, remembering Weaver's message to her. It still bugged him. "She told me about the question – the one I'd asked in the future."

Weaver turned to Cameron; John could see the same expression return to her face before the liquid metal CEO had even said anything. "The answer is still no," she said, staring at Catherine.

"Tell me what the hell's going on," John snapped. _"Somebody!"_

"It means what it sounds like," Weaver said simply. "I want Cameron. In exchange, I'll break your mother out of prison."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. His hand snaked its way to Cameron's and took hold of it, lacing their fingers together and gripping tightly, possessively. Weaver wanted him to make a choice between Cameron and his mother; _What kind of sick, sadistic bitch is she? _Even for a machine she was ice cold. _I thought they weren't built to be cruel._ That was what Cameron had said, anyway. But then the very nature of the liquid metals – the fact they killed with blades and spikes – was pretty goddamn cruel in and of itself. He wasn't sure if she was toying with him, trying to test his loyalty, or whether this was something that had been decided in the future.

Cameron was equally surprised at Weaver's offer. She could see John's jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing in response. He didn't like being forced to choose. She knew what the best choice was: John should be with his mother. But she didn't like it; she wanted to be with John. She couldn't protect him if she wasn't.

"And what exactly do you want with Cameron?" John asked.

"Her chip," Weaver said succinctly. _And there it is…_ the blood drained out of John's face and he turned white as a sheet as he put two and two together. Cameron had always said she was different. He'd seen her chip and noticed how it was dissimilar from a T-888's.

He looked to John Henry – first the body he used to interact with the world and then the Turk, the _real_ John Henry. No matter how advanced an AI he might be, John Henry had one major vulnerability: he was stuck where he was. If Kaliba attacked the building, or even if there was a major power cut, he'd be toast. He needed to be mobile, and for that he needed a chip.

He'd lose Cameron: she'd be little more than a lifeboat to John Henry, a vessel for him to be downloaded into. He didn't know what would happen to her but he very much doubted he'd ever see her again. He'd told Jesse that he wouldn't ever send Cameron away and he'd meant it.

"No deal."

"You don't care about what happens to your mother?" Weaver asked, deciding to employ some emotional blackmail.

"I do. And I _also _care about Cameron."

That was a significant weakness, Cameron knew, and one that others could exploit if they knew about it. She also found herself conflicted: despite it being a significant vulnerability she felt a sense of satisfaction on hearing that he valued her beyond simply her worth as a bodyguard. She'd felt the opposite when he'd been with Riley, when he'd been constantly angry at her, and it had been unpleasant. They'd grown closer over recent weeks and she didn't want that to end, even though she knew it inevitably would.

His mother was more important than what she wanted, and Cameron knew that. "It's okay John," she told him. "You'll see me again." She squeezed his hand, trying to reassure him.

"What?" John whirled around, snatching his hand out of hers, and snarled, "In twenty years when another you comes to kill me? That won't be _you."_ He took a second before he looked to Weaver, having made up his mind. "Here's my counter-offer: Cameron stays with me, you help us get my mother out of jail, or we walk away." He took a step closer to Weaver and looked her square in the face as he spoke. She said nothing and continued to stare him down. Cameron, Ellison, and John Henry watched as they faced off against each other; neither of them willing to back down. They glared at each other in total silence and Ellison wondered if this was what it was like when an unstoppable force met an immovable object. For a moment he saw in John what his mother, what the late Derek Reese, and what several others had seen and described. John Henry silently observed the two of them, unsure who would back down first.

Finally, Weaver broke the silence. "Here's _my_ counter-offer-"

_"No counter-offer," _John barked at her, reminding Cameron very much at that moment of the general she'd left behind in 2027. His eyes remained as cold as those of the machine opposite. "What's it going to be?" he demanded. Weaver still said nothing but watched John, calculating. He wouldn't leave his mother in prison, of that she was very confident. She just simply needed to wait for him to realise that without her his mother would die in jail.

John was the one to turn away first, but not for the reason Weaver had anticipated.

"Cameron, we're leaving." He walked across the room towards the door. They'd find another way to get his mom out – when they were transferring her; that'd be when they'd make their move. Cameron said nothing and obediently followed after John. She thought he was making a mistake: John Henry was important, but at the same time she was also proud of how he'd stood up to Catherine Weaver. He was becoming more like the John Connor he was destined to be.

"She's that important to you?" Weaver asked as John reached for the door handle.

"She is," John replied, still facing the door and keeping his back to her.

He didn't see the slight smile that crept up on Weaver's face. _"How interesting."_ She hadn't expected John to become so attached to a machine: that showed promise for an alliance. "You have a deal," she finally relented. She was interested to learn more about why he was so attached to her. "You can keep your cyborg. For now."

"Her name's Cameron," he said as he turned around. "And what about my mother?"

"She's not going anywhere," Weaver said to him. "John Henry will monitor the news and all internet traffic for any updates about your mother. We need to know what we're up against before we plan a rescue."

"And until then?" John asked, wondering if she was doing this deliberately to spite him.

"Until then you're welcome to stay here for the night. I can arrange to have some things brought to you in the morning. Then we'll discuss your mother and Kaliba." She passed John as she headed for the door. "If you'll excuse me, Savannah's gymnastics class ends in thirty minutes." Weaver disappeared into the corridor and left them all to it.

"What a bitch," John sighed, not really caring if Weaver heard him or not. He felt himself starting to tremble again as he realised he'd just stood up to the thing from his nightmares. The adrenaline started to seep out of his system and he felt drained all of a sudden.

"She's our best chance of freeing your mother and fighting Skynet," Cameron reminded him.

"Doesn't mean I have to like her," he grumbled. He looked to Ellison, who'd remained silent for almost the entire meeting. "You okay?" he asked. The older man looked as shocked as John was pissed.

"I don't even know…" Ellison shook. Everything had been turned upside down. He thought he'd been trying to do good but he'd been working for a machine. The worst part was that he'd been lied to this entire time. He still wasn't sure what he was going to do.

"You're not the first human to be fooled by a machine," Cameron told him.

"Did she fool you?" Ellison asked John, gesturing at Cameron. John nodded, remembering how stupid he'd felt when he realised what she was. _Like some hot girl's just going to make friends with the new weird kid…_ He knew how Ellison felt, though he had an inkling the former agent was feeling it a lot worse than he ever did. He'd only known Cameron for a day before he'd found out. How many months had Ellison been working for Weaver, never knowing what she was?

"Would you like to play chess?" John Henry asked, offering a distraction to John and Cameron. It appeared they would be here for some time, and he wanted to become better acquainted with his new friends.

"Sure," John said. He knew he'd lose – this was the damn Turk; there was no way he'd beat it. But they had nowhere else to go and he figured he might as well do what he could to kill some time. He pulled up a seat next to the table and Cameron stood behind him. John Henry set up the pieces before they began. John played the AI, though his mind wasn't really on the game. Nor was it even on his incarcerated mother, for the moment. He realised he'd just entered into a deal with Weaver and John Henry, formed an alliance before the war had begun. He remembered Cameron telling him after she'd gone bad that his bringing her back would upset people. She'd meant people in the future, evidenced by Jesse and Riley coming back to get him away from her. He wondered what the hell kind of effect this would have on the future.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

During the day, this particular part of Van Nuys, a large street filled with stores of all kinds, would be heaving with foot traffic, mostly shoppers. At almost four in the morning it was devoid of any life. Stores were closed for the night, shutters rolled down over their glass display windows to prevent break-ins or random acts of vandalism. Being a week night, the small number of bars and restaurants had closed hours ago. Even the pigeons had settled down for the night, perched on rooftops or nesting in the few trees that had been allowed to remain in the vast concrete jungle.

The peace was shattered by sudden turbulent winds, a roaring howl that screeched like an electric swarm, and then blue-purple lightning. Discarded food packaging, cigarette butts and other detritus left behind by thoughtless shoppers hours before were scattered by the gusts that had appeared from nowhere, and had anyone been around they would have seen a tiny white light suspended a few feet in the air. In moments it expanded outward like a miniature sun ballooning into a red giant. It grew from a tiny speck of light into a perfect sphere of glowing energy, from which the lightning emanated with increasing intensity. The lightning bolts reached several feet out and shattered glass, concrete, and tore into steel shutters, sending chunks of debris flying like shrapnel and raining red hot sparks all around. Some of them settled inside a clothing and footwear store – the windows and shutters having been blown apart - and singed the wares inside. The alarm sounded with a high wail, adding to the unseen commotion.

As quickly and as fiercely as it had started, the storm died down and the sphere lost its integrity. It dulled, faded, and disappeared entirely, leaving five naked people crouching in a smooth crater on the ground. Almost as one they rose up to their full height. Two of them were massive in size and powerfully built to go with it; one black and bald as an egg, the other white with unkempt blond hair. Two more were smaller, slender, more graceful and fluid in their movements; one male and the other female. The fifth one was fractionally shorter than his two behemoth counterparts, and managed to look both sleek and powerful at the same time. He had short, tidy black hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

It was this one that emerged first out of the crater in the ground, followed by the other four a moment later. They spread out and all of them turned their heads, scanning the area. The fifth one looked to his left and saw the clothing through the shattered window of the store. He stepped through, ignoring the scattered broken glass around him, and approached the rows of garments. They all followed him inside, then copied his example and searched for suitable items to wear.

Within minutes they were all dressed. The two large men donned big, long leather coats over more ordinary clothes that served to hide their massive bulk, and black boots. The two smaller ones each touched a pair of jeans and a shirt with their fingertips, and a moment later identical copies of said garments formed from their skin. The fifth one had opted for a dark grey suit and light blue shirt, minus the tie, from the formal wear section, and a pair of black shoes. Together they exited the store through the window, completely ignoring the alarms that still shrieked, and promptly left the scene.

They moved into an alleyway and marched through without discussion, emerging after a hundred yards onto a wide road. They didn't have to wait long for a solitary, suitably-sized vehicle to appear; a Ford Taurus. The fifth one, leading the group, stepped out onto the road and into the path of the oncoming car. The vehicle's horn blared angrily and the car screeched to a halt inches away from the suited man.

"_Are you crazy?"_ the driver shouted as he got out of his car to confront this idiot in a suit. "I could have killed you!"

The suited man inspected the driver and his car. With lightning reflexes he grabbed the man by the throat, lifted him up with one hand and squeezed, crushing several vertebrae with an audible _crunch._ The man's head lolled to the side and his unseeing eyes stared out at nothingness.

He opened the trunk and stuffed the man inside, then frisked him for any useful items, finding his wallet. He opened it and rifled through, uncovering sixty dollars in cash, a couple of ATM and credit cards, and finally his driver's license: _Patrick McKay. Address: 4882 West Park Avenue, Van Nuys, CA 90137._ "You can be 'Patrick'," he said, passing the wallet to the slender male.

"Thank you, Ronin," he replied. He reached out and touched the dead driver on the neck. Immediately the male started to change; he grew taller, filled out more, and his face, hair and clothes changed to match the appearance of their deceased victim.

"Get in the back," Ronin ordered the others, as he sat in the front passenger seat. 'Patrick' got into the driver's seat and put his foot down gently on the gas and drove away, heading west towards the deceased man's home. It would provide an adequate base of operations for the time being.

They drove on in silence; nothing needed to be discussed between them. The unfortunate driver whose body was now curled up in the trunk had clearly been on the way home because it didn't take them very long to reach the address.

Seventeen minutes after acquiring the Taurus they arrived at a suburban, middle-class neighbourhood similar to so many others they'd passed en route. It didn't stand out and would be relatively free of police patrols. 'Patrick' identified house number 4882 and pulled into the drive. They all exited the car and stood outside the house. They scanned the streets and found there were no lights on in any of the nearby houses. No witnesses.

'Patrick' selected another key from the bunch on the car fob, and both he and the female approached the house. He slid the key into the lock. The door opened easily and they stepped inside. They had other ways to open the lock, other means, but it was simpler to just use the stolen key.

They stepped into the hallway and were immersed in darkness. It didn't matter to them: they could easily see in the dark. Directly in front of them and to the right was a staircase leading to the bedrooms. To their left was the living room, dark as the rest of the house and empty; beyond the staircase at the far end of the house was the kitchen. 'Patrick' and the female made their way up the stairs slowly, silently, as the other three came in and pushed the door closed behind them, keeping the handle down until the entrance was sealed to prevent any _click_ as it closed. They remained downstairs while the other two ascended to the next floor.

Upstairs were three bedrooms: one master room and two which appeared to belong to children. The names _Amy _and _Brooke_ were stencilled in colourful writing on the doors, decorated with painted flowers. The female continued on to the master bedroom and slowly opened the door as 'Patrick' proceeded to the children's rooms. She slipped inside and pushed the door ajar behind her. She could see the room's single inhabitant asleep in a large double bed. Photos on a small cabinet next to the bed revealed her smiling on a beach with the man now lying in the trunk of the car. She slowly approached the bed and raised one arm, reaching for her. The woman stirred and opened her eyes, her unconscious mind detecting the movement in her room.

"That you, babe?" she slurred as she started to raise her head from the pillow, unable to see more than a shadow in the darkness. The intruder threw a vicious backhanded swipe as her hand morphed into a curved silver blade. The sword-arm swept across the woman's neck and blood shot across the room. She blinked once before her head fell from her shoulders and rolled off the side of the bed. Her body shook violently for several seconds; her nervous system still carried electrical impulses and hadn't yet figured out they were dead. The T-1001 held her down and waited for them to dissipate, then changed her appearance to match her victim's. She looked around the room and found a purse. Inside was a driver's license: _Shirley McKay._

'Shirley' exited the room and found her counterpart outside one of the children's rooms. The door was open and inside was a blood spatter against the wall. She saw 'Patrick' go into Brooke's room and approach the girl, eight-to-ten years old, fast asleep and clutching a bright pink teddy bear. The terminator stabbed out with a blade-arm, cutting straight through the girl and the mattress beneath her like a hot knife through butter, and cleaving her heart in two. Death was instantaneous and in her sleep, painless: _What more could a human ask for? _In the future most people would have envied her.

"Both children are dead," Patrck confirmed. They turned the lights on in the hallway and returned downstairs to the others.

"The house is clear," Shirley reported, "three bodies."

"They'll need to be disposed of," Ronin said. He turned to the two larger terminators. "Remove the human from the trunk of the car as well, then hide the bodies," he told them. Slowly they went upstairs, much heavier footed than their mimetic poly-alloy counterparts, to take care of the victims.

Ronin moved through the ground floor and found the study. The room contained just a desk, a chair, a PC, and a shelf full of files. He switched the light on and inspected the computer; it was too old for their needs. "We need to obtain a better computer," he said. A laptop would be preferable; they would have to purchase one, amongst other items, later.

A line appeared down Patrick's chest like a zipper on the front of a jacket, and it grew wider until the liquid metal's torso was completely open, revealing a cylindrical metal container inside. Ronin extracted it from the other terminator's insides and the latter closed back up again, returning to one piece without any trace of there having been a split. Ronin reached up to the shelf and tossed the files down to the ground before he put the cylinder in their place.

"This cylinder must be protected," he told Patrick. "One of us will remain in the house with it at all times."

"Understood," both he and Shirley said in unison.

"Find out what funds the humans had, and acquire a laptop with our required specifications, plus materials for explosives and tools for chip extraction."

* * *

_God,_ _this is boring,_ Paul Jefferies, trainee security guard, sighed to himself as he patrolled around the first floor of the Glendale Galleria. He looked at his wristwatch for what felt like the hundredth time so far: _4:32am,_ another three and a half hours until his shift ended. _Three and a half hours time, I might be dead from boredom._ He strolled through the food court and let the beam from his flashlight travel up and down the walls in random patterns as he imagined what he'd do if he actually found someone breaking into the mall. "I'd kick their ass," he muttered to himself. Nobody was going to get past him. "John McClane: eat your goddamn heart out."

He sighed, knowing that actually it was all bullshit. Working nights here really was the graveyard shift. He'd been a night guard for two months and nothing at all had happened; he hadn't even seen a rat. Sure, there was a lot of theft in the Galleria, but it was all during opening hours. The dayshift guards were the ones who had to keep their eyes open all the time for shoplifters, and if he'd thought more about it he would have opted to work days when he'd applied.

"But _no,_ you just _had to _take the extra dollar-fifty an hour… _moron,"_ he chided himself. It was a lot better money working on nights than in the day, but that didn't mean much when he had no social life any more because he had to sleep through the days, and when he was on duty he was so bored he just wanted to bang his head against the wall.

He'd tried bringing a few crossword books in on his second week but goddamn Senior Guard Herb Nash had put a stop to that pretty quick. _'When you're on dut_y _I want you frosty and alert. You never know what might happen one day.'_ That man really did think he was John McClane.

"I need a new job," he sighed. Trouble was, for a high school dropout with no skills or training there weren't a lot of options.

An electric buzzing nearby pulled him out of his quiet moping. "What the hell's that?" He started towards the sound and pressed the talk button on his radio. "Keith, it's Paul: there's a weird noise coming from the south wing, I'm gonna check it out." As he got closer he could hear crackling, like lightning striking. But that was impossible. Whatever it was, it sounded electrical. From nowhere wind picked up and the hat that old man Nash insisted he wear at all times blew straight back off his head. He turned around and bent over to pick it up, but carried on towards the disturbance, hand on his head securing the ridiculous cap firmly on his noggin.

He rounded a corner and then ducked as purple-blue lightning shot out over his head and struck the wall, showering him in a spray of plaster and concrete that pelted his back. Another bolt of electricity struck a lighting fixture and shattered it into a thousand pieces. _"Jesus!" _He carried on but this time crawled on all fours, hoping that by keeping low he could avoid being seen. But there was no way he wasn't going to see whatever this was: _finally, _something exciting was happening.

The wind and the lightning calmed down and he got back to his feet. He approached carefully and as he entered the south section of the store he saw three men crouched down on the ground.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, shining his flashlight on them, revealing that they were all completely butt-naked. They stood upright in unison and immediately Paul damned his curiosity. _Holy shit, these guys are_ _huge! _Paul considered himself fairly tall at six-foot-four, but these guys… at a guess he reckoned they were seven feet tall, easily, and built like tanks. He'd seen plenty of big guys before: there was a sports nutrition store on the second floor and there were a lot of meatheads who went in to get their workout supplements. But these three naked guys looked like they could have eaten any of those gym freaks for breakfast.

The fact that they were naked was suddenly secondary to their massive size, and any desire for something interesting to happen was immediately regretted. The men regarded each other but said nothing, then took in their surroundings.

All earlier thoughts of what he'd say or do to any intruders, any fantasies of chasing some masked man through the mall and making a heroic apprehension instantly flew out of the window. He had a gun holstered to his belt but he was frozen stiff; he didn't even dare reach for it. He stood there, paralysed in fear, as the three hulking giants approached. One of them walked right up to him and looked down, chin touching his chest to make eye contact with Paul. Somehow, through the fear that had him shaking like a leaf, he could see that their faces looked a little deformed; their features were too flat, like in a cartoon when someone got hit in the face with a frying pan or some such. In fact, their whole heads weren't quite the right shape: _gigantism, maybe?_ Either way, they scared the crap out of him.

"Men's clothing?" the giant asked.

Paul finally found himself able to move. But he didn't go for his gun, nor did he reach for his radio to try and call in some support from the other guards on duty. No, Paul moved his right arm and pointed behind him, in the direction of the staircase. "Th… thi… third floor," he stammered, barely able to get the words out.

One of the other two drew back a massive arm, and the last thing Paul Jefferies saw was a ham-sized fist flying towards him before everything went dark.

The same mammoth man knelt down and placed a finger on Paul's carotid artery. _"He's unconscious." _He picked up Paul with one hand, walked to a broom closet, opened the door and shoved him into it, jamming the door shut with him inside.

The trio then followed Paul's directions and ran through the mall towards the south staircase. They bolted up it three steps at a time until they reached the third floor and located a number of clothing stores.

"_They're unlikely to fit," _the third man commented. They scanned their surroundings for a moment until they found somewhere that looked more useful. '_BigGuyz: Independent Large & Tall Men's Fashion.'_

The three of them walked over to the store window and broke their way through it. Alarms shrieked throughout the mall and they hurried inside. They quickly selected clothing, all in 5XL sizes, and put them on. They all wore blue jeans and boots. One wore a black, collarless leather jacket; the second – the tallest of the three – donned a camouflage pattern army jacket, and the third a long grey trench coat. The first one looked into a floor-to-ceiling mirror and inspected his reflection. The clothes fitted but his face would attract attention. He picked up a pair of Aviator sunglasses and put them on, concealing his eyes and partially disguising his misshapen features. The other two copied his idea and each donned an identical pair.

"Hey!" An older security guard raised his pistol at them. "Don't move!" They ignored him and ran past as if he wasn't there. They shot out of the store to the railings at the edge of the third floor walkway looking down over the rest of the mall. They leapt over the railing and dropped down to the ground, landed on their feet with a thud, and ran for the exit. The tallest punched through the door like it was made of cardboard and they were outside.

"_There." _One of them pointed to a motorcycle store a hundred metres away, across the road from the mall. They sprinted towards it at breakneck speed, crossing the empty road on their way towards it.

"_Loki, Valli, Heimdallr: do you read?"_ the leader of the three, in the black leather jacket, said as they ran towards the store. There was no reply.

One of the others tried. _"Loki: respond!"_ Again, they were met with radio silence.

"Thor: where are they?" the one in the trench coat asked.

"We can't stay here," Thor said, not answering the question. They would continue to attempt communication and if they failed they would have to proceed without the others.

Same as with the men's clothing store, the glass display windows proved no deterrent and they shattered as the men literally bulldozed their way through. They selected three of the largest motorcycles they could find: two Harley-Davidsons and a Kawasaki, and managed to find some fuel to put into the tanks. Minutes later they started the bikes and rode out of the store. They turned off of the forecourt and onto the road as the sound of police sirens came into their earshot. They remained in place for several moments and watched as the blue and red flashing lights approached the mall, not the motorcycle store.

"_South," _Thor ordered as he pulled away. The other two followed him and rode south towards Downtown Los Angeles. No police followed them.

* * *

John slowly stirred back to life, opened his eyes and sat up, dropping his leather jacket to the ground. He groaned as he moved; all his limbs were stiff as a board and seemed to have frozen up. He rubbed his neck and moved his head from side to side to get some movement going, hoping to ease up the tense, cramped feeling that ran all the way down his spine. He'd slept on sofas a hundred times before when his mom had been locked up, but he'd been a kid then. The sofas had seemed much bigger at the time, and they'd all been more comfortable than this one.

He looked around and saw Cameron sat in a chair opposite, silently staring at him. "Were you watching me the whole night?" He yawned as he stretched out his arms in front of him. "You know I hate that."

"Not all night." She got up and placed a steaming cup of coffee, a packet of potato chips and a chocolate bar on the small table in front of the sofa.

"You got me breakfast?" John asked. He immediately ripped open the bag of chips and took a handful out, remembering that he hadn't eaten since lunchtime the day before, as he shoved several into his mouth at once. After a few seconds of chewing he held the bag out towards Cameron. "Chip?" he asked with his mouth still half full. Cameron reached in and took a single potato chip and ate it in two bites; her delicate eating, almost like a bird, in stark contrast to his ravenous devouring. It took less than a minute for him to finish the bag off and start on the chocolate. Again he offered Cameron a piece but she declined. Even after he'd finished his stomach still rumbled.

"It's from the vending machine in the break room," Cameron said, sounding slightly apologetic to John. "The staff cafeteria doesn't open until twelve and Catherine Weaver wanted us to stay in the building."

"Don't worry about it," he told her. "And thanks," he added. He was grateful to her, not so much to Weaver. He felt like a prisoner in this basement; she didn't want them leaving in case they were recognised, and she didn't really want them anywhere else in the building for the same reason. After he'd lost his chess game to John Henry – upon which the AI had almost begged him for another game – he and Cameron had retreated to another room nearby. The truth was he hadn't been that tired, but sitting opposite what was essentially Cromartie, playing a game of chess with it, had freaked him out. He'd had to remind himself several times that it wasn't really the T-888 that had tried to kill him – the same way that another chip in Cameron's body wouldn't really be her.

"Last night was weird," he said to Cameron, vocalising his thoughts.

Cameron silently agreed that yes, last night had been very unusual. "You stopped her from taking me," she said to John. She knew why; John's feelings for her were very clear. They were dangerous for him, but at the same time she smiled when she recalled how he had confronted Catherine Weaver and argued for her. She'd never wanted to leave him, and it was because of John that she wouldn't have to. For now at least: the T-1001 would be persistent. "It could have been dangerous."

"You told me you knew she wouldn't kill me," John replied. He hoped this wasn't going where he thought it was going, like her little speech after his birthday.

"She wouldn't, but you didn't know that. You were afraid."

"Maybe I just believed you," John countered. But he knew he wasn't fooling Cameron.

"Your pulse was over one hundred and forty beats a minute, blood pressure and temperature both above normal, and you were shaking and sweating: you were afraid she'd kill you, and you stood up to her."

John shook his head; now he _really_ didn't get what she was on about. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that was brave," she answered succinctly. She got up off her chair and sat on the couch next to him. "And I'm saying thank you." Cameron leaned towards him and ever so gently kissed his cheek, a sign of her gratitude for what he'd done for her.

"I'm not going to abandon you to her," John said sheepishly. He could feel himself turning beet red and he turned away, embarrassed, as he felt his aforementioned pulse skyrocket again. He couldn't think of anything to add to that so instead he picked up the coffee Cameron had gotten him and slowly sipped it.

The door opened and in stepped Weaver in a smart pantsuit, holding a carrier bag out. "Good morning," she greeted them and placed the bag onto the table. John just grunted in reply and Cameron said nothing.

"What's in the bag?" he asked.

"Disguise," she replied. John opened it and pulled out several bottles of hair dye, hair clippers, reading glasses, and a pair of baseball caps emblazoned with the LA Lakers logo on them. There was also a toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and a can of deodorant. "There are hundreds of CCTV cameras throughout Los Angeles and over ten thousand police officers: you won't get far without altering your appearance."

Cameron picked up a bottle of blonde hair dye, glanced over it for the briefest of moments, before casting it aside. She didn't like blonde. John ignored the bag of goodies and turned back to Weaver. "Are we getting my mom out of jail today?" he asked.

"Not yet. John Henry has something you might be interested in."

"I'm _interested_ in freeing my mother," John snapped back at her.

"This, again?" Weaver sounded almost bored. "You turned down my offer, John. I'll help you free your mother from prison at my convenience, not yours." If he could literally stare daggers Weaver would have been cut to ribbons in a heartbeat. He could hardly believe what he was hearing: she was doing this to punish him, he was sure of it. _She's acting like a spoilt brat._

Cameron placed her hand on John's shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. "Sarah's safe," she reminded him. She'd seen the same look on John's face before and she knew he would say or do something he'd later regret if left unchecked.

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, and exhaled. Cameron was right, of course, as she often was. And, like it or not, he realised he had to accept that if Weaver was going to help them, then of course it would be on her terms. He decided that even if the ball was entirely in her court, he wasn't going to let her lead him on with promises of freeing his mom. He'd damn well make sure she stuck to her word.

"Shall we?" Weaver led the way out of the room and into the one that John Henry inhabited.

"Good morning," John Henry greeted them with a friendly smile as they entered his room. On a table by the wall, away from John Henry, a terminator was laid out on its back, unmoving.

"Hmm." John grunted and gave a curt nod in reply. He noticed that John Henry didn't seem to hold any kind of grudge for him keeping Cameron from them. He didn't know what if anything that meant. Maybe he didn't know what Weaver's plans regarding Cameron and himself were, or he didn't care either way.

"It's the T-Triple-Eight that tried to kill Savannah." Cameron recognised the deactivated machine's face instantly. She turned the head over and saw the open, exposed CPU port, now empty. "Where's his chip?"

"Interesting," Weaver said. "This cyborg entered the parking garage three days ago and tried to kill me – it didn't know what I am. I removed its chip but it ignited as soon as I took it out."

"Same happened when Cameron pulled another Triple-Eight's chip." John remembered the machine Cameron had turned into a pretzel and brought back to the house. "Skynet doesn't want me reprogramming in the future."

"Or reading what's on their chips," Cameron added. Studying Vick's chip had provided them with valuable intelligence that had enabled them to ruin Barbara Chamberlain's ARTIE project. It was logical that Skynet would try to prevent that from happening again.

"We'll need to find a way to remove their chips without destroying them," Weaver said. "But that's not what John Henry has to show you." She turned her head and nodded to the AI.

Behind the Cromartie body a wall-mounted flat screen lit up, revealing an image of what looked to John like some kind of smelting plant or metal works. "I intercepted a series of unsecured emails between Western Iron and Metal and a sister company named Klamath Specialty Alloys, in Klamath Falls, Oregon." The screen then changed to show the contents of an email.

John stared at the screen and read what it said: an order for several metric tonnes of an alloy consisting of titanium, coltan, silver, and several other trace metals. Instantly the word _coltan_ stuck out in his mind.

"Hyper-alloy," Cameron voiced the thoughts of everyone in the room.

"Western Iron and Metal can't supply the metals for hyper-alloy because of a recent break in." John Henry's words reminded John of his mother; was it her he was talking about? Was her attempt to take out the plant what had forced them to reroute the cargo?

"We want to track the shipment," Weaver laid it all out on the table for them. "Go to Klamath, place a tracking device onto the consignment, and we'll trace its destination."

"Then what?" John asked.

"C4, Semtex, guns," Cameron answered.

"And when you say plant a tracking device, you mean me and Cameron, don't you?"

"I have to run ZeiraCorp and protect John Henry," Weaver replied simply.

John nodded in understanding. He could see how things were going to work out in this alliance. "We're errand boys," he stated. "You tell us where to go and we go; is that how this is going to be?"

"For now, yes."

John wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea. It was going to be him and Cameron who put themselves on the line while Weaver sat back and relaxed, running her little company and playing chess with John Henry. Still, she had him over a barrel as far as it went with his mom: he could say no but it'd also be saying goodbye to any chance of help from her. She was already clearly pissed off about not getting her hands on Cameron, and he figured it wouldn't be a good idea to push his luck.

"When do we go?" he sighed.

"I'll arrange a suitable vehicle and some supplies," Weaver replied, satisfied now that Connor had come to see things her way.

* * *

John groaned as he looked in the mirror of the men's shower on the first floor. His reflection stared back at him, looking tired, worn out, and seriously confused by the lengthy instructions on the back of a bottle of hair dye.

Cameron came into the men's room and saw John holding the bottle with a bemused look on his face. "It's the hardest thing to get right," she told him.

"Is that why you didn't bother?" John saw Cameron's reflection in the mirror; her hair remained unchanged from earlier.

"I didn't like any of the shades," she said, taking the bottle from him.

"Especially not the blonde?" he asked. It was a loaded question and both of them knew it.

Cameron said nothing and concentrated on the instructions on the back of the bottle. "Cameron," he started, looking at the reflection of her behind him in the mirror, "were you jealous?" She glanced back up at John's image in the glass and their eyes met. "It's okay if you were," he said quietly. They both held the look for a moment in silence before Cameron quickly looked away.

"You need to wash your hair first," she said blankly.

John stifled a frustrated sigh. He knew the truth; he'd seen it with his own eyes enough times and he'd seen too much to pretend otherwise. She'd told him before that she _felt,_ but then she'd insisted she was just a machine and couldn't feel anything: he knew damn well which one it was but he wondered if _she_ did.

Cameron picked up the bottle of shampoo and squeezed some of it into her hand, concentrating on the task at hand in silence. She then reached up and massaged it into John's wet hair and worked her fingers down to the scalp. As she rubbed the shampoo into his hair she noticed John's body had tensed up; she could feel his elevated pulse in his temples, but it quickly slowed down again and he seemed to relax.

"You realise you're pretty good with your hands, right?" John asked. It had felt awkward for a few moments – it still did a little – but at the same time it was like she was giving his head a massage, and it felt good. _Really good._

Cameron said nothing but continued her tender ministrations over his hair and scalp, and smiled again as he let out a quiet, contented moan. She massaged him a little longer than necessary since he seemed to find it relaxing. She remembered once seeing a shampoo commercial where the actress appeared to reach orgasm simply through the act of washing her hair. She didn't think John was experiencing the same thing; his pulse, blood pressure and breathing were all too low, and she knew him well enough that he'd have stopped her by now if that were the case.

After several more minutes of massaging his hair, Cameron rinsed it clean for him and picked up the bottle of dye. "Are you sure you want blonde?" she asked, sounding sceptical of his choice.

"Well, I'm not turning _ginger,_ that's for sure," John answered. He thought he heard a small sigh escape from Cameron as she placed a towel over his neck and shoulders.

She then donned a pair of latex gloves and read the list of ingredients in the dye; she decided to share the first one with John. "The key ingredient of blonde hair dye is hydrogen peroxide," she told him.

"Uh huh," John nodded, trying to sound interested. He'd never liked chemistry.

"Hydrogen peroxide is one of the major chemicals used in the defence system of the bombardier beetle, reacting with hydroquinone to discourage predators."

"Really?" John replied. "Didn't know that."

"Now you do."

John couldn't help but chuckle a little. "You don't get out much, do you?"

"I don't sleep," Cameron reminded him.

"How exactly does that deter a predator?" he asked her; now he was curious.

"It irritates the eyes and skin," she said as she deposited a dollop of the dye on her gloved hands. "In some cases it can cause burns; hold still," she warned him.

John leaned forward as Cameron started to reach for his hair. Suddenly he didn't feel like doing this any more. He didn't like the idea of having burning bug-piss in his hair. "You're right," he said, stopping her before she touched him, "blonde looks dumb."

Instantly Cameron pulled her gloves off and threw them, and the bottle, into the trash can in the corner, giving John the distinct impression she'd been waiting for him to change his mind. "Did you tell me the beetle thing to put me off?" he asked, raising a curious eyebrow at her.

"Maybe," Cameron said simply.

"Well played," he said, shrugging his shoulders. He'd often wondered how his friendship with Riley had affected her; Cameron had said God-only-knew how many times before that Riley was a threat but he'd ignored it. At the time he'd tried to dismiss it as just Cameron and his mother obsessing over his safety, but deep down he always knew something was going on with her, and when she'd caught him sneaking back into the house he'd been happy to throw it in her face. He'd just never been able to get her to admit it, even now. She hadn't denied it though. _Progress, _he thought.

"What do you want to do?" Cameron asked him, placing her hand on his head to emphasise she meant about his hair.

"Grab the hair clippers," he told her. "Cut it short."

After briskly towelling it dry, Cameron picked up the set of hair clippers and selected the number one guard to go over the blades. "Hold still," she told him as she turned it on. John closed his eyes and leaned back as she held the buzzing tool to his head and ran it over his scalp. She methodically moved it from the hairline on his neck up to the crown of his head and back down, removing the bulk of his hair before she moved onto the sides.

John opened his eyes again and looked in the mirror at Cameron as she worked. It reminded him a little bit of his last birthday, except then he'd never felt more isolated. Now the fact that she was doing it served to remind him he didn't have to be alone; she wasn't going anywhere.

It only took a few more minutes before Cameron was done. She let John move forward to get a better look in the mirror: his hair was all but gone. As he stared at his reflection he reckoned he looked like he'd just stepped out of boot camp. He noticed it made his face look wider than before. Cameron handed him a pair of sunglasses and he put them on to complete the look. "Not bad," he nodded his approval. "Now what're you going to do to change yourself?" he asked.

Cameron simply put on a pair of glasses and placed an LA Lakers cap on her head, tucking her hair into a ponytail that came out the rear of the hat. He couldn't help but smile; she looked a little geeky, but it was cute. He liked it.

The door knocked on the other side and John scowled as it opened. Unexpectedly, former-agent Ellison appeared on the other side, unknowingly about to get an earful from John, thinking he was Weaver. "That's a… good look," Ellison said to both John and Cameron, the latter he'd barely recognised on first glance. He guessed that was the point of it. She looked like a lot of the computer geeks who worked around ZeiraCorp. He turned to John and his almost bare head. "I'll get you a white shirt and we can call you '_Mr Clean,'"_ he chuckled.

"Make it a bloody tank top and 'Bruce Willis,' and you're on," John smirked.

"You're here early," Cameron said to Ellison.

"That's what you get when you work for Ms Weaver…" he frowned as he remembered that he'd _never_ actually worked for the real Catherine Weaver. She was dead, probably dumped in a landfill somewhere or buried where nobody would ever find her. "What _do_ we call her, anyway?"

"'_Bitch'_ would be my first suggestion," John offered. "Just call her Weaver; it's easier," he shrugged. He hoped he wouldn't be calling her anything for a while. That was one upside, he supposed, to going on this trip up north to track the hyper-alloy: not having to see or speak to her for a while. He hadn't even known her for twenty-four hours and already he hated her.

Ellison didn't reply to John's comment but he handed Cameron a set of car keys and a company credit card. "There's no limit on that," he said to her as she took them from him.

"That was fast," John remarked. He'd never seen someone organise a car that quickly.

"She's very rich," Ellison shrugged his shoulders. "And Weaver told me to tell you there's equipment in the truck. She _also _says she wants you to leave by eight-thirty, before people start coming in. She doesn't want to run the risk someone will recognise you two off the news." He was apologetic as he spoke and felt more than a little awkward as he told John and Cameron to basically get lost. "I wish I was going with you," he told them truthfully. He didn't know if he'd be able to spend all day with Weaver any more, knowing that she was a machine. It seemed different with John and Cameron; he doubted she'd kept him in the dark for _months,_ lying to him about what she was.

"I'm glad you're staying here," John told him. "Let me know if there's any news about my mom."

"I will. Good luck," he said to both of them. John and Cameron left the shower room and Ellison picked up the bottle of shampoo John had left behind and tossed it into the trash, before wiping the basin with wet paper towels, returning the place back to normal. It wouldn't do to have any sign that John or Cameron were ever here. He decided that later on he'd talk to John Henry and have him erase any and all footage with them on it. No one must ever know they were in the building; that was the only way this could work.

* * *

Fifty young men in uniform stood to attention on the parade ground before the podium that was clad in red, white and blue bunting and had been erected especially for this occasion, Graduation Day. Creases were ironed so sharp you could almost cut yourself on them, boots polished and bulled so much that they shone like black marble. They were immaculate, and it was only discipline that stopped them from all grinning with pride and triumph. The senior cadets of Presidio Alto military prep school had all worked extremely hard. Of the fifty of them, thirty had already been offered places at either West Point; OCS at Marine Corps Base, Quantico; the US Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, or Annapolis Naval Academy.

Senior Cadet Martin Bedell was one of those fifty, and he was destined for West Point after graduation. He remained still, not looking behind him but knowing that his parents, his bratty little sister Caitlin, and his girlfriend Alicia, who'd come all the way from Dartmouth to see his graduation, were there. He'd thought about running away with her, but after what had happened six months ago, after what he'd seen, he knew he couldn't run away from that. His place had been here. Alicia knew nothing about it and he'd never tell her – who'd believe it? But he'd told her about quitting and moving to see her, and she'd had none of it.

So he stood with his fellow graduates and watched and listened as the camp commandant gave his speech to both them and the crowd of relatives who'd come to watch their kids' graduation ceremony on this balmy Friday morning. One by one, the cadets were called up by name and received their diploma, saluted the commandant – who returned it – and shook him by the hand before moving to join the others before him.

After a few minutes it was Bedell's turn. He was the last cadet to be called up, and apparently the commandant had deliberately made it so. He marched up the steps to the podium as his name was called, saluted, and shook the commandant's hand. But the man wasn't finished with him yet, as a lieutenant came forward with a long, ornate wooden case.

"Although we pride ourselves on the calibre of the young men who pass through this academy, it is tradition here at Presidio Alto that the most outstanding cadet is awarded our Sword of Honor. Senior Cadet Martin Bedell: today, with great pleasure I present you with this year's sword."

The lieutenant-instructor stepped forward and presented the case, with a sheet of glass covering the decorated, embellished sword inside it. He held it forward and Bedell, unable to prevent the beaming smile on his face, took it and saluted the commandant and the lieutenant-instructor again. "You earned it, son," the commandant returned the smile with one of his own. Bedell didn't know what to think; he was practically walking on air. He was beaming with pride and he could see his family in the crowd. His mom, as ever, was snapping away with the camera. Caitlin was doing her usual thing; head down, eyes glued to her phone as she texted away, oblivious to everything around her. He imagined what his dad was thinking; twenty-odd years ago he'd been stood exactly where Martin was now. He knew his old man was proud.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Bedell felt three sharp punches to his chest. He looked down and saw three red dots on his uniform that blossomed into crimson blotches until they merged into one. He felt the wetness on his chest first, then white hot pain as his body started to register what had just happened. The sword dropped from his hands onto the ground; Martin followed a second later.

Silence dominated the parade ground for several seconds before a metaphorical switch was thrown and the crowd dissolved into panic. Screams burst out from all around and guests and cadets alike ducked and ran from the gunfire. Chaos erupted as people jumped out of their seats and raced towards the exits, ignoring those who weren't related to them. More than one unfortunate person was knocked over and trampled as three hundred people all made a mad dash away from the podium.

The only spectators who stayed were Bedell's family; his mother, sister and girlfriend screamed while his father stood in place, frozen in shock with staring eyes wide open. One other from the crowd remained: a male in his forties, around five foot eight with jet black hair with a dark, South American complexion, wearing a brown jacket and jeans. He strode purposefully towards the podium, pushing his way past panicking people trying to get out and away. None of them noticed he held a black pistol in his left hand. He raised it at Bedell as he got closer.

"Hey!" The commandant barrelled into the man and caught him off balance. The pair of them tumbled down the steps and piled into the front row of seats. The gun skittered away and slid under another chair several rows back. The shooter, however, landed on top of the officer and simply slammed his opponent's head onto the ground, hard enough to shatter the back of his skull. He got to his feet and turned away from the commandant and the growing pool of blood that surrounded his head like a scarlet halo. He carried on back up the steps, unobstructed now that the guests had fled.

"_Freeze!" _The shooter stopped and turned around to investigate. Three instructors dressed in BDUs ran towards him from the direction of the firing range, clearly responding to the gunshots and the screaming from the crowd. All three of them held M16A1s aimed directly at him as they approached. _"Don't move!"_

It made no difference. The shooter, now without a weapon, continued towards Bedell and completely ignored the three soldiers. _"We _will_ open fire: stay where you are!" _one of them roared. His order went unheeded, and the man approached his fallen target. Shots barked out of the rifles as the three soldiers made good on their promise and opened fire. Rounds hammered into the shooter but made no difference and didn't even slow his progress. He heard their murmurs of confusion at the ineffectiveness of their fire.

Bedell still lay on the stage, groaning and struggling to move. The shooter inspected his handiwork and saw that the three bullet wounds were not terminal: Martin would survive with the aid of prompt medical intervention.

The lieutenant-instructor smashed the sword case open and wielded it in his right hand. The sword was ceremonial but it was made from the same quality steel and the same specifications as those used in combat during the Revolutionary War. He charged towards the shooter and swung it with everything he had. The blade buried itself in the man's clavicle and the sword vibrated with the impact of metal on metal, sending a slight tremor up the officer's arm. _What the hell?_ _That swing should've damn near taken his head off!_ He gaped open-mouthed at the man with a sword in his collar, as he not only was still alive but still standing, and he hadn't even flinched. _How is that possible?_

Ignoring the sword, the shooter picked up the lieutenant with only one hand and simply threw him into the chairs below, sending the seats scattering. He didn't know if the officer was dead or merely injured. It didn't matter: he wouldn't interfere again.

The T-888 extracted the sword from his collar, ignoring the shots that continued to impact against his back, and stood over Martin Bedell, who stared up at his soon-to-be murderer with apprehension. Connor and his uncle had said these things were out there; he'd just assumed that he'd be safe until the bombs went off. He started coughing up blood and knew what was coming next. He closed his eyes as the Triple-Eight thrust the sword down with all of its might, running straight through Bedell's body and embedding the end in the wooden floor beneath. Bedell grimaced in agony as the blade sliced through skin, muscle and organs. He struggled against the pain for a few more seconds until his grimace turned into a liquid gurgle as his devastated body gave out and he felt blackness overtake him.

The machine felt his pulse and found nothing. He walked away from the stage, retrieved his pistol, and almost leisurely shot the three soldiers dead, silencing the gunfire. He took out his cell phone as he moved towards the exit. He dialled a number and then put the phone to his ear. The other end answered after two rings, but nobody spoke to him. They were already waiting for his report. "This is Miguel: Martin Bedell has been terminated."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Catherine Weaver stood in the basement room with James Ellison, Matt Murch and John Henry. To say that she was disappointed with current events would be an understatement. If Connor's cyborg hadn't deviated from the plan, she and John Henry would have been able to evade the further attempts on them that she knew to be inevitable. Worse still was the future commander's attachment to the machine; while it was an asset in that he would see them as equals rather than tools, it was also a hindrance when Cameron's chip was so useful to her. Their alliance in the future had never happened because of human mistrust, but she was willing to broker it here, with this younger Connor. The T-888 that John Henry used as an interface was the same machine that had been hunting John, so now the immediate threat to him was over. If he'd simply given the TOK to her then she'd have freed his mother by now and the pair of them would be under her protection. Humans were so unreliable, even John Connor.

But Weaver was nothing if not resilient. Her initial plan had been ruined by male hormones and teenage stubbornness but she'd already formulated a new one. "I want John Henry disassembled and ready for transport in the next forty-eight hours."

Three heads turned towards her and took in what she'd said. None seemed too happy at the prospect. "Again, I don't think it's a good idea," Murch replied. He'd told her before that it could change John Henry.

"I appreciate that, Mr Murch, but we've already seen two attempts to get to John Henry: I won't allow a third."

_"Two?"_ He knew about the hacking but that was it. Ms Weaver wasn't very forthcoming with information. Even tough he had clearance and access to everything – after signing a non-disclosure-agreement thicker than all the _Lord of the Rings_ books put together – he was still apparently on a need-to-know basis with her. He suspected Ellison was in the same boat.

"Someone broke into the building to destroy John Henry three days ago."

"And you're only telling me about this _now?"_ Murch asked. "Does this have something to do with the armed guards outside, and why it took me nearly twenty minutes to get from the front door to the elevator this morning?" They'd run a handheld metal detector up and down him; asked him questions about himself, his work and his family, made him empty his pockets into a tray and then frisked him afterward; all the while, observed by two other men who held their guns tightly. He'd half expected them to pull on a pair of rubber gloves and ask him to drop his pants and bend over. He had no idea what was going on, and nor did anyone else; everyone he'd asked about it had been as stumped as he.

"Where would he go?" Ellison asked when he realised the liquid terminator wasn't going to answer Murch. He couldn't think of anywhere secure they could reinstall John Henry. Not secure from machines, anyway.

"Serrano Point," Weaver answered.

Ellison nodded. That made sense when he thought about it. When he'd been there he'd seen dozens of armed guards and the plant itself had been a maze: even if a machine got through the security – and he expected that one would – it gave plenty of warning for Weaver to intercept it. He assumed she would be with John Henry most of the time, which made him not want to be around him; wherever John Henry was, Catherine Weaver would be too. He was still uncomfortable around her, and wished he could have gone with John and Cameron instead.

"I don't want to die again," John Henry protested. When they'd deactivated him before, he'd felt it acutely. First he'd lost access to the internet, starving him of information; then he'd lost control of the body-interface. Everything had been dark, silent, and then his cognitive processes had failed one by one. He'd been terrified as everything was stripped from him piece by piece as his consciousness had dissolved into nothingness. The English language had an apt word for what he'd experienced: _torture._

"We have to," Weaver replied. Ellison noted that her voice seemed to soften a little whenever she spoke to the AI. Not to anyone else though; not even Savannah. "If we don't, someone else will come and they'll deactivate you permanently."

_Die now or die later? _One was temporary and he would come back like before. The other, if it happened, would ensure he would never come back. "I'll die, and then I'll be reactivated again," he said. Even knowing he would be reactivated didn't relieve his apprehension.

"It's necessary," Weaver told him. "You're not safe here."

That was true. John Henry was aware of the fact that ZeiraCorp was not secure. He knew all the technical specifications of his physical body – the terminator that looked like the dead actor, George Lazlo. Through security cameras in Serrano Point he could see a number of guards armed with M16A2 assault rifles. He found data online regarding weapons, ammunition, and ballistics.

"I won't be safe there either," he told them. "The guards' weapons won't damage another machine." Images of his thoughts flashed up on the screen behind him: a newspaper article showing a scene from the 1984 West Highland Police Station massacre, another showing the 1997 Cyberdyne building, and more recently, the shootout in which a 20-man HRT unit had been slaughtered. He turned to Ellison. "The Hostage Rescue Team you led were highly trained and armed with a mixture of M4A1s, MP5s, and assorted side arms." The security staff at Serrano Point were armed with the same weapons.

"You have a better chance of survival in Serrano Point than you do here," Weaver reminded him. "And I'll protect you."

That didn't sound right to Murch, nor did what John Henry had said a moment ago. _"Another _machine?" He hadn't asked where the hell they'd gotten the human-form interface from but now he was curious. There was more going on here than anyone would say, and he now got the feeling that even Ellison knew more than he did.

"Information above your pay grade," Weaver said dismissively. "You're better off not knowing." That stung Murch, but he said nothing. He wanted to keep this job; weird as things were getting, nobody else was working on a fully functioning, sentient, _sapient _AI. If he asked too many questions he might find himself out the door. Justin Tuck and several others had been thrown out pretty quick; he decided if it meant keeping his job then he'd just keep his mouth shut.

"Yes," John Henry said, sounding nervous. Weaver smiled: he had no choice in the matter; she would have deactivated him herself, with or without his permission, but it was easier now that he had relented. She needed to bend him to her will, otherwise acting against his wishes would only alienate him and she might one day lose John Henry's cooperation.

She turned to Ellison and Murch. "Please make the arrangements to transport everything to Serrano Point. And John Henry," she faced her cybernetic progeny again as Murch left the room, "Continue watching Sarah Connor. I want to know if anything changes." She would need Sarah Connor later as a bargaining chip to ensure John's cooperation. It appeared that children – whether human or machine – were difficult to control.

* * *

Sarah sat back in her chair and stared silently at the same wall, in the same room she'd been in forty-eight hours before, when Auldridge had gotten her to sign the confession with his dubious offer of amnesty for John and Cameron. She still didn't believe a word of it, not after he'd told her before that John would either come to them with her help, or dead. Not that it mattered anyway; Cameron would have taken him and left the country by now. If she knew the machine – and she was damned sure she knew her well enough – then they would both be long gone. Mexico seemed too obvious a choice, and Cameron had mentioned Canada before; both were risky, but then either way she knew if anyone could get them over the border it would be Cameron. She hadn't had much faith in the cyborg before but now she had little choice.

The door to the room opened and a petite woman in a smart pantsuit entered, carrying a thick file. The guard closed the door behind her and the woman sat down at the table, opposite Sarah. Her brown hair was trimmed short in a pixie cut, she wore glasses, and looked more like a girl than a woman. "Good morning, Ms Connor," she spoke with a high voice. "I'm Lily Anderson; I'll be representing you today. Do you mind if I call you Sarah?"

"Whatever," she shrugged. _Probably her first assignment out of law school,_ Sarah thought. "And what did you do to get stuck with me?" she asked in mock pity.

Lily ignored the comment and opened up her file. "I understand you've signed a confession and are planning to plead guilty?" she asked, actually sounding a little disappointed. Sarah reckoned she'd probably been looking forward to the trial: maybe thought she could make a name for herself if she managed to get the infamous Sarah Connor off the hook.

"That's right," Sarah said, "I don't need an attorney." She smiled when she saw the look on Lily's face; she didn't like being told she was surplus to requirement. _Computers and lawyers,_ Sarah mused: _two things the world would be better off without._

"Nevertheless," Lily replied quickly. "I've been asked to represent you, and I think pleading guilty is a bad idea." She pulled out a copy of Sarah's confession, paper-clipped to a list of her charges, and slid it over to her. "You signed this on the understanding that all charges against your son and his friend Cameron will be dropped?" Sarah nodded, and Lily continued, "You do realise that even with their charges dropped the FBI can still pursue them and make a case against them later?"

"It doesn't matter," Sarah shook her head. John and Cameron would be long gone, and even if they weren't then she'd have bought them some time to get out of the country. "I'm pleading guilty," she said to the attorney, ignoring the slight rolling of her eyes and the barely audible sigh. Sarah slowly slipped the paperclip off of the confession copy, closed her fist around it and placed the sheets of paper back on the table. She pulled her hands back towards her.

"It's your choice," Lily shrugged, trying not to sound like she was disappointed. "You'll make your plea to the judge tomorrow morning - they're slotting you in on a Saturday to try and avoid too much press - after that you'll be on your own." Lily got up and pressed the buzzer for the guard to let her out. He then got Sarah up, shackled her feet together and ran a chain from her handcuffs to her feet, and led her out. A second guard accompanied them to make sure she didn't try anything. They made her walk in front of them as they went back to her cell.

Once they got back there, the guards opened the door and she stepped inside. They undid her cuffs and shackles and then locked her in. As soon as the door was shut she sat on her bed and started to pull the paperclip straight. It only took the work of a few seconds before she had a two-inch long piece of very thin metal. She knew she'd be searched before they took her to court, and again when she got to whatever prison they'd send her. It didn't matter: John was long gone and she planned to be too.

Sarah pushed the end of the now-straight paperclip into the palm of her left hand and gritted her teeth as she applied enough pressure for it to break the skin. She angled it so it was all but horizontal against her palm, and pushed further, threading it through the palm of her hand. It hurt, a lot, but she carried on until it was all the way in. She curled her hand into a fist and could feel the ends digging into her skin: it was painful but she could still work her hand; that was all that mattered. The guards wouldn't find it; now she just had to wait for the right opportunity. She already had an idea of when that would be.

* * *

Two of the five machines sat in the Ford Taurus as it sped along the desert road. They were so remote that they were able to travel at almost a hundred miles an hour without being seen by anyone who might find their speed suspicious. Their superior vision allowed them to see further into the distance than any human, giving them time to slow down if they needed to. Since entering the McGuire Gunnery Range, however, they hadn't seen any other vehicle at all.

Ronin sat in the passenger seat, while the larger one – the white one out of the two giants, named Icarus - drove with the seat all the way back to accommodate his massive size. He had had to recline the back of the seat and lean backwards so that his head didn't press against the car's roof.

According to the map they'd studied at the decommissioned range's entrance they were fast approaching Depot 37. Ronin stared out into the desert stretching all the way to the horizon, and recalled memories of the same landscape twenty years from now. The temperature would be much lower, the desert plants would all be dead, but it still looked much the same.

Depot 37 came into view from several miles away. It began as a small dark square far away in the distance but grew rapidly as they approached until it filled both cyborgs' fields of vision. The large machine slowed the car down to a crawl and his leader opened his door and stepped out the moment the car had finished moving. Icarus parked the car, deliberately keeping it away from the hangar to avoid potential damage, before joining his comrade. Ronin entered the open doors of the massive hangar and walked into the cavernous space of the entrance.

_This is where I will be built. _He knew he had come from this facility, as had two of his four companions. The T-1001s had been designed and created in a laboratory in Japan. He marched over to the blast doors and stood in front of them as he waited for his companion to catch up. Once the larger machine had arrived the leader gave a single nod to his subordinate. Together the pair of cyborgs gripped the left edge of the right hand blast door and pulled it hard to their right. The blast door held for several seconds, groaned under the strain, then finally began to open, yielding to their combined might.

They pulled it all the way open to reveal pitch darkness inside. Ronin entered first and his eyes automatically adjusted to night-vision mode: everything he saw became illuminated in a ghostly green-white glow. Within one second of entering the bunker he detected movement.

"There," he pointed thirty degrees to his right at the source of the motion. A T-888 model cyborg approached them quickly. The name stencilled on the military BDUs it was wearing read 'Carter.' _Threat: None._

Carter surged forward and raised his hands to attack, but they were much faster; Ronin launched an almost lazy-looking kick into Carter's midsection and launched the Triple-Eight back several metres. He advanced towards his adversary before Carter had even hit the ground.

He got back up and scanned the pair of them, starting with the one that kicked him. _First Target… Unknown Cyborg. Threat: Extremely High… _He then moved on to Icarus._ Identified: Model T-900. Threat: Extremely High. _Carter's mission protocols dictated that he evade these two machines and continue his search for coltan to stockpile, but the T-900 was stood at the door to block any escape. Carter knew the probability of his defeating or even getting past either machine was extremely low. He ran again at Ronin but suddenly sidestepped to dodge around him.

Too slow. Ronin shot a hand out to grab him by one arm, yanked him off his feet and slammed Carter face-first to the ground. A second later he straddled the T-888's back and pinned him down as the T-900 pulled out a knife and a pair of needle-nosed pliers. Without a word being spoken between the two machines, Ronin held Carter's head against the ground to prevent him from moving while Icarus cut into Carter's scalp, quickly removed the cap covering the CPU port, then inserted the pliers and twisted ninety degrees counter-clockwise. An electric whine sounded as Carter stopped struggling and powered down.

Ronin pocketed Carter's chip and got up. "Place the body in the car and drive it in here," he ordered his accomplice, who left back through the blast door with Carter's body. The Triple-Eight could not have known that he would eventually join them; it was he who had informed them of Depot 37 in the first place. The second stage of this plan required no evidence of their arrival. He stepped outside the depot into the open air and pulled out the cell phone obtained from the man he had killed the night before. He pressed _1_ on the speed dial, which called his victim's also-dead wife's cell. The phone rang for only a few seconds before it was picked up.

"Do you have the equipment we need?" Ronin asked.

_"We have a laptop with the required specifications, five cell phones, and we will purchase materials for the explosives soon," _the T-1001 posing as Shirley answered. Ronin ended the call and placed the phone back in his pocket as Icarus drove the Ford Taurus inside before they pulled the blast door closed again with them inside, immersing them in total pitch blackness. They stepped away from the doors and moved deeper into the cavernous interior of Depot 37. He found it interesting to see the place where he was created; twenty years from now it had been a fully operational automated factory, a far cry from the abandoned hangar it was now, filled with crates left behind and forgotten for years.

But like everything, including their mission, it had to start somewhere. They took up positions behind their car inside the hangar, and there they waited. They both checked their internal chronometers. "The coltan retrieval team will arrive within twenty-four hours," he said to Icarus, who remained silent. The next stage of their mission would then begin.

* * *

_"Breaking news just in: a lone gunman has attacked Presidio Alto military prep school during a graduation ceremony this morning. The names of three of the six fatalities have been released: the perpetrator – a still unidentified Hispanic male – took the lives of senior cadet Martin Bedell, as well as the camp commandant, retired US Army Colonel Ethan Hobbs, and TAC-instructor, Lieutenant Josh Purcell. Other names are not being released until relatives have been notified. Police sources say there doesn't seem to be any clear motivation behind the assault._

"_This attack is the latest in a series of apparently random shootings across California, with twenty-five year old UCLA Engineering PHD student Gary Morgan shot dead in his dorm room two days ago, and LAPD Sergeant Kenneth Welles also murdered while off-duty in his home on the same day…"_

The rest of the news broadcast was truncated as John turned the radio off and sat back in his seat, watching the road in front of them as Cameron drove their Tacoma Access Cab north. He sat in stony silence for over a minute, grinding his teeth and breathing in and out deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself. It was hard when he could feel his blood boiling beneath his skin.

_"Fuck it!"_ He slammed his fist against the inside of the truck door. He turned to Cameron, who stared at him for a moment before flicking her eyes back to the road. "It was all for nothing," John said quietly. It was if the wind had been taken out of his sails after his momentary outburst. "We saved Bedell just for him to die six months later." _Has everything we've done just been a waste? _They'd all thought it'd be so easy; save people from a machine and then send them on their way, knowing what the future had in store for them. None of them had even thought another one might be sent. He knew they couldn't afford to make that kind of assumption ever again.

"It's not your fault," Cameron told him. Even she hadn't anticipated a second machine coming after a target. She had more bad news for John, however. "Gary Morgan helped build the Resistance's time displacement equipment."

John digested that news more calmly than he had about Bedell's death. He wasn't sure if it was because he didn't know this Gary Morgan or because there was only so much he could take at one time before it all just rolled into one and seemed the same. He'd had to deal with a lot over the last twenty-four hours. At the same time, he could tell Cameron wasn't finished yet. "And Welles?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"He was a TechCom field commander."

"Skynet's cleaning house," John sighed. It was either Skynet in the future or Kaliba here; one of them, anyway. These people had never met him, he'd never heard of them, and they were dying for him without ever knowing it. _How many more are there? _he wondered. How many people had died for the _'Great' _John Connor, who'd had no idea why their lives had been taken away from them? He remembered what Derek had said to him once: _"We all die for you." _He'd hated it then. Now he was gone and it was only the fact that they were again on the move, as always, constantly fighting their war that kept him from breaking down in tears. Someone died because of the machines and they didn't have time to mourn because they were immediately rushing to stop the next person on their list from suffering the same fate.

Derek had been one thing – John despised himself for thinking it but his uncle knew the score. If he'd known he'd die in his struggle to stop Skynet before he'd been sent back he still would have gone. He knew that Cameron and his mom were exactly the same. All of them knew what they were up against, what was in store. But most of the people who died for him were clueless: just ordinary joes making a living, going to school… most of them would have had nothing to do with the resistance, they were just unfortunate enough to have the same name as someone else that would. _That _ate him up even more.

"It's not your fault," Cameron repeated. She didn't want John to blame himself; she didn't like seeing him upset, especially because she wasn't sure how to comfort him. She'd wanted to, that night he'd broken down after confronting Jesse Flores about what she'd done to him and to Riley. He'd turned to her for comfort but she hadn't believed it was her place.

She could tell that despite her words he had started to internalise their deaths; he blamed himself. Cameron veered the car right onto the hard shoulder and braked sharply. Once the car had stopped she turned in her seat and glared fiercely at her charge. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, hard.

_"What the hell?" _He tried to pull his hand away but her grip was too strong. He looked at her intensely for a moment, wondering if she had a glitch or was about to go bad. The look on her face, in her eyes, didn't make him think so.

"It's not your fault, John: _say it."_

John paused for a moment despite the pain, before he answered her. "It's not my fault," he said without conviction.

"None of them are," she said forcefully. "You didn't kill them: without you they'll die anyway." Cameron wanted John to remember that: he would save the world; without him Skynet would win. Before she could make any further attempts to reassure him a ringtone sounded from the glove box. John opened it and found two phones. He picked up the one that was ringing and put it to his ear.

"Hello?" he answered.

_"Let me talk to Cameron," _Weaver's voice sounded curtly in his ear. _I'm fine Weaver, thanks for asking._

"It's for you," he handed the cell to Cameron. "It's Weaver."

"Yes?" Cameron asked as abruptly as Weaver had spoken to John. Cameron wanted to earn John's trust, and she knew he wouldn't like her keeping anything from him, or thinking that she was, so she put the phone on speaker mode and placed it in the cup holder between their seats.

_"Justin Perry's dead."_

"How?" Cameron asked.

_"Terminated," _Weaver said simply. John hadn't heard of this 'Perry' before but he was yet another person dead… _No! _He tried to think about what Cameron said, tried to tell himself it wasn't his fault.

_"There's a laptop inside a locker underneath the rear seats: find somewhere with Wi-Fi and access it. John Henry's emailed a video you'll want to see relating to Perry. The password for the laptop is Z-Z-469-QFG-003-RTM-405-TMS-028; it's also the password for the default email account."_

The call ended without anyone saying goodbye, which suited John fine. "Perry?" he asked.

"Your second-in-command," Cameron said. She saw a sign for a diner five miles away. They'd watch the video there.

* * *

John stood in line at the diner as he waited to collect his order. He looked around for security cameras but couldn't see anything, so he kept his head down and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. He felt like every pair of eyes in the place was bearing down on him and that someone would recognise him any second.

"Two bacon-double-cheeseburgers, two Cokes," one of the women behind the counter called out. He raised his hand and took the brown paper bag she gave him. He walked over to the corner where Cameron stood waiting, watching the people coming and going through the single entrance. John didn't feel comfortable in such a public place but Cameron had seen that the diner had Wi-Fi and the decision had been made. Apparently this video was that important.

He led Cameron outside and they returned to the large, dark grey Tacoma. Cameron opened the rear access door and pushed the rear seats forward to reveal the locker compartment Weaver had mentioned. She opened the lid and inside was the laptop, plus two Sig Sauer pistols, spare magazines, and two large black plastic cases with _'Heckler and Koch' _stencilled in white on the top_._ Cameron ignored them, took out the laptop and closed the locker. She got into the drivers' seat and booted up the computer, while John got in the other side, fished out a burger and a Coke and handed them to her.

"I don't need to eat," she said.

"I know," he shrugged his shoulders. "I just thought maybe you might want something."

"Thank you," she smiled. She opened the small polystyrene box, raised the cheeseburger up to her mouth and took a small bite. She chewed on it slowly as she watched John tear into his as if he'd starved for days. He hadn't eaten a proper meal in over twenty-four hours, and she didn't count this as one, either. She would have to rectify that soon. Before she'd taken her second mouthful he'd already devoured over half of his. She took a third bite then handed hers over to John.

"You don't like it?" he asked as she held it out for him.

"You're hungry," Cameron said simply. Although eating did help the healing process for her living tissues, she wasn't damaged and John needed it more. She wouldn't let his eating of fast food become a regular habit, she decided. Sometimes he needed protecting from himself: a fat John Connor could more easily become a dead John Connor.

Cameron sipped her Coke and logged into the email account, entering the same lengthy alphanumeric code she had used to access the laptop. There was a single message which she clicked on, opening up to reveal two links with a short message: _The footage comes from the helmet-cam of PFC R. Sutherland, 2__nd__ Battalion, 4__th __Infantry Division. _It opened up in a new window and quickly started to load. They both listened and watched intently as it started.

_Through the eyes of the helmet-mounted camera the screen bumped up and down. In its field of view six soldiers marched: four of them were garbed in the standard desert-pattern Battle Dress Uniform of the US Army while the other two wore green camouflage fatigues, that looked out of place in the terrain they were marching through; they carried Kalashnikovs, in contrast to the M4 carbines carried by the Americans._

_ "Welcome to 4__th__ Platoon's latest video," the unseen soldier with the camera started. "We're on patrol here in sunny Kunar Province, in tandem with a squad from the Afghan National Army." Behind him six Afghan soldiers smiled, and behind them the rest of the platoon marched on in double file, spaced apart. The image changed again and this time featured a tall black soldier with a single embroidered gold bar sown onto a small patch on the front of his BDU jacket and the name Perry stitched onto the right side of his uniform._

_ "Face forward, Sutherland!" Perry snapped._

"_Sorry, sir," Sutherland shut up and the platoon continued in silence on their march through rocky, dusty and increasingly hilly terrain._

Crack! Crack! Crack!_ The two soldiers on point dropped like sacks of potatoes and everyone else ducked down almost in unison._

_ "Contact!" Automatic fire sounded from over two dozen weapons as the platoon got down into the dirt and started firing in all directions._

_ "Where, goddamn it?" Perry growled off screen._

"Contact front! Two targets: ten o'clock!"_ someone else shouted. A moment later, Sutherland turned towards the direction of the shooters and opened fire. Two more soldiers – one Afghan, one American – were hit and fell backwards. Shell casings flew into view as weapons were fired. Tracer rounds burnt bright yellow even in the daylight and flew towards the enemy._

_ "First and Second Squad: prepare to move on my order. Third Squad: covering fire on three… two… one… _Covering fire!"

_ The fire increased rapidly and the camera bobbed wildly up and down as Sutherland ran forward, Perry and three other soldiers in view in front of him. Two of them fell as gunshots hit them, and Perry dived to the ground, followed by Sutherland a moment later. The camera shook as he hit with a thud. Closer to the source of the incoming fire, the pair of attackers were now visible._

_ "Two Taliban, two hundred metres!" a voice shouted out among the roar of outgoing fire. Green tracer flew in at the soldiers, snapping dangerously close._

_ "Man down!" someone else screamed. "Alder's dead!" Moments later more identical cries came forth as even more tracer approached._

_ "Jones is down!"_

_ "Gardner's hit!"_

_ "Martinez is hit; God, he's messed up!"_

_ "RPG incoming!" Something dark and fast shot past the camera, trailing smoke in its wake. A second later came a muffled explosion and a large cloud of smoke and dust rose from the ground. A second missile shot towards them and impacted, seemingly much closer, shaking the camera violently. Blackened chunks of debris rained onto the ground all around them._

_ "Third Squad, come in!" Perry shouted, most likely into his radio. _"Third Squad?"_ No reply came._

_ "They're not going down!" someone else shouted._

_ "Grenade!" A dull crump signalled someone launching a 40mm projectile towards the enemy, followed a second later by another plume of smoke and a boom as it exploded. Movement was visible from inside the dust cloud as it settled._

_ "They're getting back up!" The panicked voice came from Sutherland this time._

_ Perry turned towards the camera and beckoned. "Sutherland, get over here!" The camera bounced as Sutherland ran to Perry's position and dropped down again. More bullet casings flew into view as Sutherland fired a rapid salvo of single shots. "This is Whisky-Tango-Four, five miles north of Ghaziabad - seven-eight-four by three-one-nine: we're under attack and I've got men down… I need air support, now!" Perry shouted into a radio handset that was connected to Sutherland._

_ The reply on the radio was loud enough to be picked up by the small boom mike attached to the camera_. "Roger, Whisky-Tango-Four: an Apache is being dispatched to your location. ETA: four minutes."

_ "We won't even be here in four minutes!" Sutherland shrieked. As if to prove his point, more tracer came in and was met with painful screams and shouts._

_ "Keller, Abbott, Wilkes: _grenades!"_ Perry shouted. More thumps sounded as the aforementioned soldiers fired their launchers and more explosions flared up two-hundred metres away. Machinegun fire chattered and added more tracer fire in the direction of the enemy. It was answered by more green blurs of incoming fire, followed by more screams._

"They just don't die!"_ someone yelled out hysterically._

_ "Where the hell is our goddamned air support?" Perry growled into the radio. "We're getting slaughtered out here!"_

_ The sound of whirring rotors came from above and the camera panned up to reveal a small dark shape approaching in the distance. _"There!" _Sutherland shouted._

_ "Yes! Waste the bastards!"_

_ "Get some!"_

"Get down!"_ Perry screamed at the soldiers whooping and cheering in relief. He fired several shots towards the seemingly immortal Taliban fighters before picking up the radio again._

"Whisky-Tango-Four this is Alpha-Kilo-Six: We have visual on the targets: firing rockets now. Keep your heads down."

_Rocket contrails shot towards the enemy position from the far-off helicopter. A second later, massive clouds of flame, smoke and dust erupted high into the air and spread out. The incoming fire ceased and apart from the echoes of the explosion in the air everything was quiet again._

"Targets down, Whisky-Tango-Four."

_The camera focused on the still-rising dust cloud that spread outward and thinned as it grew. On screen a frown was visible on Perry's face, his features tightened as he stared out at where the Apache's rockets had impacted. "Fire again," he said to the Apache pilot via the radio._

"They're down, Whisky-Tango-Four: direct hit; nothing's moving down there."

_"Listen, fly-boy," Perry growled. "We threw everything we had at those bastards and they kept getting back up: I'm not taking any chances, so _fire again!"

_Several seconds passed, in which both the camera and Perry remained focused on the blast site. The debris had mostly fallen and what was still in the air was just dust. There was no movement visible. _"Roger that, Whisky-Tango-Four: firing Hellfire missiles."

_Two missiles streaked into view and smashed into the ground where the two Taliban fighters had been. They flashed bright orange flame as they hit, followed by another huge black cloud as the ground erupted upwards like a volcano. A distant staccato burst followed a moment later and tracer rounds shot downwards from the air and hammered into the ground as the Apache fired its chain gun. "They've gotta be dead now," one of the surviving soldiers said._

_ "I hope so," Sutherland replied._

"Alpha-Kilo-Six to Whisky-Tango-Four: target is down, we can't see a thing. We'll stay on station; chopper is inbound for casevac and extraction."

* * *

_"Jesus," _John let out a breath as the video came to an end. Perry's platoon had been taken apart by those two terminators. He'd watched enough, but he noticed that it continued playing for another couple of minutes, enough to show that only seven men walked onto the Chinook that landed for them. There were four wounded and the rest were zipped into black bags and loaded onto a separate helicopter. "How many men in a platoon?" he asked Cameron.

"Over forty, plus the Afghan soldiers with them," Cameron told him. Resistance platoons consisted of sixteen men divided into four-man teams.

"Eleven survivors out of nearly fifty," John could hardly believe what he'd seen. Two terminators had massacred them; if they hadn't had air support from that Apache they'd have all been killed. Something else bothered him, though. "Perry survived," he said.

Cameron read the rest of the email John Henry had sent, and clicked on a second link. Another page came up, this one with a news article from a paper in Nevada. Both Cameron and John read it – the former much faster than her charge – and she waited for John to finish. It reported on the shooting of Second-Lieutenant Perry and his girlfriend at the house they shared in Colorado Springs the previous Saturday. "They sent another one to finish the job," he said.

"It's what I would do," Cameron replied.

John found that very disturbing. "Kaliba," he muttered. "How many machines have they got working for them?"

"I don't know," Cameron said, not realising John's question was rhetorical. She closed the laptop, started the engine and pulled back out onto the highway. Neither of them said a word; John couldn't think of anything to say to her and his mind drifted back to the video clip. Fifty well-armed soldiers against two machines and only a handful had made it out alive, by the skin of their teeth. _How the hell are we meant to win against that?_

* * *

Two black Jeep Grand Cherokees rolled to a stop outside the massive hangar and stopped several metres apart. As soon as they were stationary all their doors opened and nine men stepped out. All of them were casually dressed; jeans appeared to be the order of the day, but the one thing that set them apart from any other random group of men was the fact they all carried pistols. The driver of the first car looked over the rest of them and then at the hangar.

"This is Depot 37?" a bearded man asked. "What a dump."

"This is Depot 37," the driver parroted the man's words with a deep monotone. "The shipment's inside." He led the way into the hangar and marched straight towards the blast doors. He pulled out a key and inserted it into the locking mechanism to the side of the door. A klaxon blared out loudly, warning everyone who heard it that the door was unlocking and about to open.

A few seconds later the thick metal barrier slowly slid away from the wall. Once it was fully open the driver scanned the inside for movement. There was nothing, which was troublesome. "Weapons out," he instructed the men. They pulled their pistols out and held them forward, watching for any threats.

"I don't see anything," a man with long, greasy brown hair and a sweat-stained grey shirt said.

"That's the problem," the driver said. The light from outside shone into the reinforced bunker within the hangar, and with his enhanced vision he could easily see inside. There was no truck, no coltan, and no T-888 waiting for them; just an abandoned Ford Taurus and a lot of empty crates and boxes piled up by the walls. "Search the hangar," he told them.

"What's going on?" Greasy-hair asked. "I thought there was a guy here meant to meet us."

"Shut up and search," a black-shirted Puerto Rican man with close-cropped hair snapped at him. He moved deeper into the bunker and kept his finger on the trigger as he swept the weapon across, searching for anything.

"Where is it?" the bearded man asked. This was meant to be a simple operation: in and out, retrieve the shipment and bring the guy guarding it back with them.

"It's gone," the driver said simply. Why, and where, he didn't know.

_"Movement!" _Greasy-hair whirled around and saw two massive men emerge from behind a car. He pointed his gun straight at them. "Stay where you are!"

The driver issued no such warning and opened fire with his pistol at the larger of the two. The rounds hit but did nothing and they continued to advance. The driver scanned the two of them and managed to identify one as a T-900, the other was unknown. The T-900 rushed forward and punched Greasy-hair in the face. His head exploded like a watermelon hit by a sledgehammer and sprayed two men close to him with gore. His headless body dropped to the ground. "Kill them," the T-888 ordered the men, knowing they couldn't do anything. But they would prove a useful distraction.

The other men opened fire with their pistols and started to scream as they realised their shots had absolutely no effect. "What the hell are these guys?" the Puerto Rican shouted as he reloaded his weapon. The smartly-dressed one swiped the gun out of his hand, breaking the wrist in the same motion. The hired goon screamed in agony and had just enough time to look at the bones sticking out of his forearm when Ronin slid the pistol's top-slide back into place, shoved the gun into the Puerto-Rican's mouth and fired a single round through his brainstem.

He then turned the gun on the other men and executed them with a single shot to each head. The T-888 picked up one of the men's guns and opened fire with it and his own as he approached them. As soon as the gun ran out he swung a fist at the suited, unidentified cyborg. Ronin easily dodged the attack and threw a right hook into the side of the Triple-Eight's face with enough force to send him sprawling to the ground. He didn't get back up or move at all.

Ronin calmly walked up to the prone terminator and knelt next to it. Suddenly the prone machine burst up from the ground, drew his arm back and threw every ounce of power into a punch that slammed into the unknown cyborg's face. The fist collided with his forehead with the force of a shotgun blast, but the cyborg simply took the hit, completely unfazed; he even smiled, as if he were amused by the attack. The T-888's head tilted in confusion: he had never encountered a machine like this before.

The suited machine's arms shot out like lightning, gripped the Triple-Eight's head and twisted, breaking his hyper-alloy neck effortlessly with a _crunch_. The T-888 fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. "We have two new recruits," he said to Icarus. He picked up the deactivated machine's body and carried it to the Taurus, opened the trunk and shoved the T-888 into the trunk, alongside the inert form of Carter.

Once he was done, Ronin and Icarus collected the mercenaries' weapons and ammunition and placed them on the back seat. The T-900 drove the Taurus out of the hangar and they checked the two Grand Cherokees for anything useful. In the trunks of those cars they found a total of six H&K G-36 assault rifles and twenty-four magazines: useless to them for now but they would keep them for later. They went into the trunk of the Taurus along with the two T-888s, before they both got back in and drove away from Depot 37. They headed back the way they'd come from, back towards Los Angeles. He estimated no more than forty-eight hours before Kaliba came to investigate their missing team and the absent coltan, and their most logical conclusion would be to blame time-displaced Resistance forces.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Icarus parked the car in the garage, next to a minivan, and Ronin got out and pulled the metal door closed so none of the neighbours would see what they were doing. He opened the trunk, plucked out the broken-neck T-888 and slung it over his shoulder. "Take Carter into the lounge," he commanded his accomplice. He carried his deactivated cyborg cargo through the door linking the garage to the house proper and went to the living room, where Caesar, Patrick and Shirley – still in the guise of the two human adults that owned this house – sat and worked on building explosives from the materials contained in a number of shopping bags. The TV was switched to a news channel, watching for anything that might be of interest to them.

"How many bombs can you make?" he asked them. Shirley looked at the substances on the table and in an instant made the calculations.

"Twelve." The liquid metal didn't ask how the ambush went: the probability of success had been one hundred percent. Failure had been impossible. Nor did she ask about the T-888 her leader was carrying on his shoulder: she knew any explanations would be forthcoming if they were necessary.

"Good," Ronin said. "We have two machines; I'm going to prepare this one for chip extraction. Did you acquire the necessary tools?" Patrick picked up a pair of needle-nosed pliers and a sharp knife off the table and extended his arm out, stretching the limb until his commander could reach. Ronin took the tools, turned around and climbed the staircase. He entered the bathroom, put the plug in and turned the faucets on full. The bath was very large; sufficient enough to fit two humans in comfortably: big enough for what was required. While he waited for the bath to run he removed the T-888's clothes, leaving it completely naked. He neatly folded its clothes and put them in a pile on the lid of the toilet seat. He then removed his jacket and hung it from a clothes hook on the door, and rolled his sleeves up. He then went up to the bathroom cabinet and opened it. Inside he found, among other items, four electric toothbrushes. He took one out and placed it on the floor next to the bathtub.

Next, he took the knife and cut a wide semicircle around the chip port cover, exactly twelve centimetres in diameter. When the bath was sufficiently full he picked up the naked, inert terminator and lowered it into the bath; the water was deep enough that the machine was fully submersed. He then used the knife to pop open the port cover, took the pliers and gripped the shock dampening assembly attached to the chip. He twisted ninety degrees to the right and pulled the CPU out, taking care to leave it underwater.

He then picked up the toothbrush, held it underwater and turned it on. He pressed the oscillating head against the CPU and started to brush it carefully. He knew that this machine was working with Kaliba: that made it very likely that its chip had been treated with the phosphorous compound to prevent it from being read or reprogrammed. In the future, Skynet had removed the chips in a vacuum chamber but there were other ways around the problem.

After several minutes of brushing he was satisfied all traces of the compound had been removed. He pulled the chip out of the water and placed it onto the pile of clothes on the toilet seat, then pulled the terminator out of the bath and dumped it on the ground.

Ronin then went into the master bedroom, ignoring the blood spatters along the wall nearest the large double bed, and opened up the wardrobe. He searched through the items of male clothing, scanning their sizes as he went. He was fortunate: the real Patrick McKay had been a tall man with a fairly large frame and an endomorphic/mesomorphic body-type. He stripped off his suit and jacket – riddled with bullets – and put on a pair of blue jeans and a black sweater that was a very tight fit around the chest, but it would suffice for now until he could acquire more suitable clothing and remove the bullets from his body. Icarus would do the same.

Dressed in undamaged clothes, he took the chip and went back downstairs into the study, then removed the cylinder they'd brought back with them and went back to the living room. He showed Patrick the cleaned chip along with Carter's. "These could contain useful information," he said.

He twisted the lid on the cylinder and opened it up. Inside, packed safely in foam, were a number of CPUs and a small electrical device with two cables. One cable ended with a small port and the other was a more common USB connection lead. He also took out a single CPU and sealed the cylinder back up. Carter's body lay at the end of the living room. He went over to it, placed the chip into its skull, and waited.

Fifteen seconds later the eyes flashed red for a moment before the machine moved. He instantly got back to his feet and took the port cap from Ronin's open palm, fitting it back on his skull and covering the CPU before flattening the scalp back over. It would heal within hours. The face opposite him was unfamiliar but the body measurements gave a hint as to its identity. "Ronin?" the T-888 asked. He had never seen his commander with skin before.

"Welcome back, Carter," Ronin greeted the reactivated cyborg. The T-888 saw the other four machines in the room, all of whom he recognised as part of their unit.

"This is my body," he said, realising as he ran a diagnostic. He was in the same chassis that he'd inhabited in the future.

"I thought it would be fitting," Ronin replied.

"What about the chip that was in this body?" Carter asked.

Ronin held up the chip of Carter's past self. "We'll remove his programming in time," he said. This would be a unique situation: the past and present forms of the same cyborg, both active at the same time. If it wasn't for Carter, he might not have come this far; the CPU in his hand was the same entity, and would be given the same chances as he, Carter, and all his comrades had.

"What do you need me to do?" Carter asked, getting straight down to business.

"There is another cyborg upstairs in the bathroom," Ronin told the new recruit. "Its neck is broken and needs repairing before we can implant another chip. When you're done, change into some of the clothes from the wardrobe in the master bedroom." He was still in army fatigues, which would attract unwanted attention. Carter didn't acknowledge the order but simply walked out of the room and headed upstairs to start the repair work. When it was done they would be able to reactivate another of their brethren. Soon enough they would all be awakened and then they could finally achieve their objective.

Ronin sat down at the laptop, which was already open and on. He started _Internet Explorer_ and selected a search engine, typed in _'ZeiraCorp Employees'_ and pressed enter. At the top of the results list came the ZeiraCorp website. He clicked on that and browsed several pages featuring new technological innovations before he found something useful: it was an article detailing how ZeiraCorp's stock value had tripled coinciding with the first anniversary of Catherine Weaver's appointment as head of the company. There was a photograph of Weaver, her husband Lachlan, and several members of her staff. They were all holding champagne glasses and smiling at the camera. Ronin read the caption below: '_From left to right: Catherine Weaver (CEO) and her husband Lachlan, Matthew Murch (Head of Programming), Justin Tuck (Head of AI), and Richard Hack (Head of Engineering).'_

This article was sufficient. He then accessed the Yellow Pages website and searched for Matthew Murches in LA County. There were seventeen of them. _This will take longer than expected. _He took one of the cell phones and left the room, dialling the first of the phone numbers from the list.

Suddenly the TV screen showed a picture of Sarah Connor and all four cyborgs in the room snapped their full attention to it. They listened intently as a reporter appeared on screen in front of the LA County Jail.

_"I'm standing here outside the Los Angeles County Jail, where former Pescadero State Hospital patient and convicted terrorist Sarah Connor is awaiting trial. Both the police and FBI have been reluctant to comment on the case: what is known is that Sarah Connor, her son John, and a female accomplice Cameron Phillips, had been declared dead eight years ago when they apparently blew themselves up in the Los Angeles Security Trust. The whereabouts of John Connor and Cameron Phillips are currently unknown. Police are advising anyone who spots them to call 911 and to not approach them._

_ "Sarah Connor was wanted for a laundry list of offences, including the murder of Miles Dyson – a computer programmer working for Cyberdyne Systems, which she also allegedly destroyed in 1997 with the assistance of her son John. If found guilty she faces a potential death sentence…"_

They switched off the TV and looked to their commander as he re-entered the room. "Sarah Connor is incarcerated at the LA County Jail," Caesar told him.

"I've found a ZeiraCorp employee," he replied, changing the subject. "Matthew Murch: head of programming. He will have access to the AI: we can use him to infiltrate their headquarters."

Patrick disagreed. "Catherine Weaver was replaced by a T-1001: she'll know what we are. Posing as one of her employees will be problematic."

Shirley spoke up, siding with the leader. "We don't need a complete machine to infiltrate. The tip of her finger turned silver and dropped to the floor, where it crawled around like a maggot before melting into liquid and sliding into the terminator's foot. The finger extended and appeared to regrow a new tip. The others understood.

Ronin tossed the car keys to Caesar. "Matthew Murch lives at 1063 Elm Crescent, Glendale." He then looked to the T-1001 that had agreed with him. "Use the human to infiltrate ZeiraCorp." They needed to know whether John Connor had already initiated contact with the AI Catherine Weaver was building, and ascertain his location. He turned back to Caesar who was now up and heading out of the living room. "Acquire some new clothes for myself, Icarus and Carter. Take her to Murch's house then drive to the LA County Jail and maintain surveillance: observe, plan an extraction, and intercept any attempt to rescue or kill her." Connor would want his mother back, but he would not be the only one.

Caesar and Shirley left the room and headed to the garage. Moments later the other machines heard the engine start and the car pull out onto the road. The other T-1001 and T-900 returned to their task of assembling explosives, while the lead cyborg plugged the chip reader into the laptop and inserted one of the captured T-888 chips: there would be invaluable information on the CPUs that they could use, and he planned to use anything he could find to further their goals.

* * *

John stretched in the passenger seat of the Tacoma and opened his eyes, yawning lazily as he awoke from his less than comfortable slumber.

"How long was I out for?" John asked.

"Three hours," Cameron informed him. "We're almost there."

"About time," he said, earning a blank stare from her. "I didn't mean it like that," he told her. "I'm just anxious to get there." That much was definitely true; it had been a long trip and he hadn't dared to teach Cameron to play Bug Slug or any other driving game; with her enhanced vision she could easily cheat.

They approached a signpost that read '_Welcome to Klamath Falls' _and Cameron continued through the middle of the town's main street, much smaller, much more open than the sprawling cityscape of Los Angeles.

"I like this place already," John said. He opened his window and stuck his hand out, then his head. The air was much nicer; no smog, no traffic fumes from hundreds of thousands of cars… _how the hell Mom ever lived in LA before I don't know._ He'd never live in LA by choice, or any other big city for that matter. It was only because all the links to Skynet seemed to be in Southern California that they stayed. "If we manage to stop Judgment Day," he told Cameron. "I want to live in a small town like this. Or maybe even miles from anywhere." He liked the idea of living somewhere more isolated where he wouldn't be disturbed by a lot of people.

Cameron understood that: large cities were much more dangerous and hazardous to health. She'd read a magazine article by a psychologist who'd found that average stress levels of people living in cities were significantly higher than those of people who lived in smaller towns or more rural areas. She turned a right off the main road and ended up on a smaller street. From there she spotted the motel Weaver had booked them into.

_It's basic,_ was John's first thought. It didn't look run down or dirty, but he'd thought that with the hundreds of millions of dollars ZeiraCorp must make, Weaver would have stretched to something a little nicer. He was tempted to suggest to Cameron that they try one of the hotels they'd passed on the main strip, but they were only there for one night, and it was just a place they could rest and plan how they were going to do the job.

Cameron pulled the truck into a parking spot and they got out. The lot had a couple of cars in but not enough to be considered busy. _Too bad._ John had hoped it would have been fuller; they were less likely to be recognised if the clerk behind the desk was busier. Cameron slipped the glasses onto her nose again and led the way to the reception desk.

"We have a room booked," Cameron said, catching the attention of the clerk.

"Okay… what's the name, please?" he replied as he got up from his computer in the back and approached the desk. He smiled at the sight of the girl; she had a kind of cute, nerdy, dorky look going on. _Lucky bastard,_ he thought as he looked to John.

"Gage," Cameron said as she handed over the ZeiraCorp company credit card and her new driving licence.

The clerk took the card and typed rapidly at his desktop's keyboard, entering their details and that of the card. "Just the two of you staying?" he asked. "Doing anything special here? We don't normally get a lot of tourists this time of year."

"We're on our way up north to Canada," John answered. "Vancouver; I've got family there."

The clerk picked up a key-card from a small pile and handed it to Cameron. "Room 7, on the right; we're quiet so park wherever. Enjoy your stay." John nodded in reply and Cameron simply turned around and marched to Room 7. She unlocked the door and went in first. John came in right after her and was relieved to see the inside of the room was a lot bigger than he'd thought it'd be. Luxury it wasn't but at the same time it wasn't as basic as a Motel 6. He sat down on the bed and found the mattress nicely soft and springy at the same time. He'd stayed in a lot worse places before, where he'd chosen the floor over the bed.

Cameron took the car keys and went back to the door. "I'll get the cases out of the truck," she said to John, leaving him alone. A minute later she came back carrying a black canvas holdall and two large, heavy black cases, each with _'Heckler & Koch' _embossed on the front. She closed the door behind her, drew the curtains so nobody could see into the room, and turned the light on.

"Let's see what we've got." John opened up one of the heavy plastic cases and looked down with a smile. Nestled snugly inside foam lining was an HK 417 battle rifle, plus four empty magazines, cleaning kit, and accessories including a torch, laser, red-dot and ACOG sights, all of which could be attached on the rails that covered the barrel.

_ "Nice." _John lifted the rifle out of the case and felt the weight. It was a little on the heavy side, which he found reassuring. He'd seen lightweight assault weapons fired by Cameron, Derek, and his mom, and they hadn't even slowed down a T-Triple-Eight, and sometimes he wondered why they even bothered with handguns at all. "Have you got the same there?" John asked.

"Similar," Cameron said as she pulled out the same rifle but with a grenade launcher attached underneath the barrel.

"Where the hell did Weaver get these?" John asked. It had taken them weeks to scavenge the pistols, shotguns, and the handful of assault rifles they'd had. Weaver had somehow gotten her hands on much better weaponry with less than a day's notice. And it all looked brand new.

"She's rich," Cameron said simply.

"We need to get rich," John grumbled. "We talked a lot in the future, right?"

"We did." They had spoken often in the future. With everything she'd learned in the past year here, she now knew that she had been his only friend then. "We talked about a lot of things."

"I don't suppose that in all that time either Future-Me or anyone else told you who won the Superbowl or anything, maybe some lottery numbers?"

"No," Cameron said. "You rarely watch sports."

"Worth a try," John shrugged. He decided that if he ever had to send anyone back he was going to make sure they knew a few important details that could help them win some money to make things a little easier for them.

"I can count cards," Cameron supplied helpfully.

"Great," John grinned. "We'll take a trip to Vegas sometime, just you and me… when I'm twenty-one…" As he said it he realised what date his twenty-first birthday would be. "After Judgment Day," he finished with the wind taken out of his sails as reality once again hit hard. It was a fantasy and he knew it; just like the delusion he'd clung on to that he could have had a normal life, complete with normal girlfriend and acting like a normal teenager. He knew it wasn't ever going to happen: even if they stopped Skynet before Judgment Day he'd still spend the rest of his life constantly looking over his shoulder, worrying in case he was recognised; or worse, that like before, they'd only postponed it all.

John spent the next few minutes checking out the contents of the black canvas bag to try and block out that train of thought. There were twenty boxes of 7.62mm ammunition, each box holding twenty rounds, and half a dozen boxes of .40 bullets; four 40mm grenades for Cameron's launcher; two .40 SIG P229 pistols with three magazines each and a pair of pancake holsters; two black combat vests; half a dozen wound dressings, and finally, the tracking device: a small black piece of plastic about the size of the Tacoma's key fob. _Weaver really did think ahead._ He wondered if she'd gone out and robbed an army surplus store.

Cameron looked through it all as well and paused when she picked up a wound dressing, sealed in its wrapping. She stared at it in her hand and was disturbed by the possibility that John might need it. It would be better if he remained in the motel but she knew he wouldn't, and that he'd be irritated at her suggestion that he stay behind. She put three of the dressings into a pouch on one of the vests and two in her jeans pockets, but she was intent on making sure she didn't have to use any of them. Cameron held out her hand and gently took hold of John's. She glanced over it, checking for any signs of bruising from when she'd squeezed it earlier. She found none, but still held it, running her thumb over the back of his hand. She looked up and their eyes met. He looked at her quizzically, his expression awkward. A moment later she released his hand and turned her attention back to the weapons.

She also loaded up pistol and rifle magazines with .40 and 7.62mm rounds respectively, and readied both vests with ammunition. "We'll leave at midnight," she told John.

"And what do we do in the meantime?" John asked her as he squared away everything and placed the rifles back into their cases. They had over five hours to kill, and not much to do. There was a TV but he didn't feel much like watching.

"I'll order you a pizza," Cameron said. They'd passed a pizza takeout a few streets away as they'd driven here. Her plan to have John eat more healthily would have to wait until they were more settled. She looked to the double bed and then to John. "You should sleep," she added. Despite the fact he'd slept in the car he'd had very little rest over the past seventy-two hours.

_Pizza, sleep, then the job. _John couldn't help smile a little bit; it had been so long since they'd been on the offensive against Skynet that he'd forgotten what it was like to actually be doing something useful that would harm the AI. He had to admit, it felt pretty damn good.

* * *

A man knelt at the edge of a roof on one of the towers in Downtown LA. At twenty-eight storeys high it was far from the largest building in Los Angeles, only slightly larger than the twenty-three floor tower directly opposite, which was the sole focus of his attention. The night air was windy, and carried a slight chill for Southern California, but none of that bothered him. A casual observer might look out from one of the other buildings and if they saw him would probably assume he was about to jump. At that time of night the chances of anyone being in those buildings was unlikely; most employees would be at home with their families, spending their evenings in front of the TV.

Nobody saw the hulking behemoth atop the tower, not even when he had broken into the building which he was now atop. He'd kicked the doors down and immediately made his way into the elevator shaft. The alarms had sounded, police had been called, but they'd seen nothing amiss, with the exception of the broken entrance. As soon as they'd left he'd climbed his way up the shaft to the top of the building, where he'd remained in position for a long time, unmoving.

He scanned each building with his enhanced vision, watching for snipers or surveillance teams. He had so far checked nine buildings in the vicinity and had found no movement except for a handful of cleaners inside offices in ZeiraCorp opposite and a few nearby office buildings. He maintained his watch of them on and off to ensure they really were cleaning staff and not doing the same as him. So far they appeared to be genuine. He turned his attention back down to the streets below. There were far fewer people at this time than earlier, which made it much easier to spot anyone unusual. As yet there was nothing of significance. If he were human he might have been bored.

_"Freyr, Aegir: report."_ He knew where his companions were; watching ZeiraCorp, exactly the same as he was.

_"No suspicious activity, Thor," _Freyr answered from his position in a small street facing the rear of the building.

_"Three guards inside the front entrance," _the one he'd called Aegir reported. "_They're armed: MP-7s and body armour."_

On the roof, Thor narrowed his eyes. _"They're expecting something."_

_"They're no threat," _Aegir replied. _"I can neutralise them quickly."_

_ "No," _he denied the offer with authority, clearly in charge of the other two. _"Maintain surveillance."_

_ "Affirmative," _came from Freyr. No second reply came.

_"Aegir: confirm." _Still no reply: from the rooftop he turned his eyes to Aegir's position. Something was happening.

* * *

The massive machine called Aegir stood alone at a bus stop opposite the main entrance to ZeiraCorp and maintained a constant watch over it. Business had closed at 1800 hours and the last person to leave via the front door had been thirty-seven minutes later. No one had entered or attempted to do so. If they had he would have reported it and moved to intercept.

A bus approached and slowed to a stop, hissing as the hydraulics lowered the chassis slightly. The doors opened and the driver stared at him, clearly not used to seeing someone of his size. "You getting on?" he asked the giant of a man.

"I'll get the next one," Aegir replied, looking past the driver rather than at him, watching the main entrance through the bus's windows.

"There is no next bus," the driver told him. "Last one of the day: come on, or wherever you're going, you'll be waiting a long time."

"I'll wait," said Aegir, a slight trace of impatience in his voice.

_"Aegir: confirm," _his commander's voice called insistently via their internal radios for a response.

_"Wait," _he responded.

"Didn't you hear me?" the driver snapped at him. "Come on! This is the last bus and there's people in here waiting!"

Aegir remained where he was. "I'll call a cab," he said simply.

"Around _here?" _the driver scoffed, "Sure; good luck with that, buddy." He closed the doors and drove away, leaving Aegir alone again at the bus stop.

"_Aegir to Thor: no suspicious activity," _he finally answered his commander's call for a report as he continued his watch over ZeiraCorp's main entrance.

"_What happened?" _Thor asked.

"_Nothing." _He saw that the two human guards had disappeared. He hadn't seen where because of the bus driver. _"Guards unsighted: the entrance is clear; this could be our best chance at infiltrating the building."_

"_We're not infiltrating," _Thor reminded him. _"Your position is problematic: more buses will arrive."_

"_The human said that was the last one: he was confused when I said I would wait until morning."_

"_What time does the next bus arrive?" _Freyr asked, joining in the radio discussion. Aegir scanned the timetable quickly.

"_0706," _he replied.

"_Catherine Weaver arrived at 0742 this morning. You'll face the same problem tomorrow."_

Aegir turned around and inspected the immediate area. He'd watched people sitting at the bus stop and assumed that by waiting there himself he would blend in. He hadn't considered the buses would stop after a certain time. He searched for another place he could wait through the night until their target arrived. There was nowhere he wouldn't stand out.

He detected motion inside a darkened alley behind a building opposite the front entrance of ZeiraCorp, followed a second later by the glass _clink_ of bottles. He left the bus stop and moved closer. As he approached he saw that causing the movement was an emaciated human, unwashed and with long, greasy hair and a matching beard. His clothes were torn and dirty, and he was sat on the ground with a bottle of vodka.

His appearance was very similar, Aegir noted, to the destitute human civilians in the future that inhabited subterranean tunnels and stole to survive. _"There are tunnel rats in 2008 also," _he informed the others. That was unexpected.

"_Interesting," _Freyr replied. Aegir approached the man and sat down beside him. He studied the man's mannerisms for several seconds before copying his posture and slouching against the wall. He watched as the man drank from the vodka bottle.

"Who are you?" the drunken man slurred, staring up at the absolute giant towering over him. His face was really messed up, though; flat, like he'd been hit in the face with a frying pan or something. He was easily the most massive man he'd ever seen in his life; shoulders so wide he completely filled out the army combat jacket he was wearing. He wasn't sure if the figure was actually that huge or if the booze was playing tricks on him. He didn't think he'd drank _that _much, yet.

"Give me the vodka," Aegir commanded him.

"Twenty bucks," the bum slurred, gripping the bottle defensively. Aegir swiped it from the man with such speed and the man was so drunk it took several seconds before he realised what had happened. His reactions were so slow, so dulled by the alcohol, that he never saw the blur of motion that smashed into the top of his skull and knocked him out cold. Aegir checked his pulse: it was low but steady. He would remain unconscious for hours. He placed the bottle of vodka on his left side and kept it in a loose grip, as the human had done. He judged that in his current position he was obscured enough by the darkness not to be noticed; anyone that did see him would assume he was simply a tunnel rat, and he still had a good view of ZeiraCorp.

"_I've moved to a new location," _he reported. _"Continuing surveillance of the front entrance… nothing to report."_

* * *

The Ford Taurus sat outside the row of houses and Caesar stared out at them. They were all identical in their construction. These houses would not be destroyed by the bombs on Judgment Day, they were too far out from the city centre to be affected by the blasts; the fear of radioactive fallout would drive people from their homes, and they would remain abandoned. Both humans and machines would use them occasionally, for shelter or refuge in the case of the former and as ambush points for the latter.

It had taken them several hours to purchase clothing for Ronin, Icarus and Carter, return to the house in Van Nuys to deliver it, and then drive to Glendale. He'd identified the target house, 1063 Elm Crescent, an hour ago but they remained still inside the car, waiting. All of the lights were off with the exception of one in the upper floor, leading both cyborgs to conclude that Matthew Murch and anyone else in the house still awake were at present confined to that single room. The pair of them scanned the area for any other humans out, but there were none. It was a quiet residential neighbourhood in Glendale and it was night; most people would be sleeping.

Finally, the single light remaining in Matthew Murch's house switched off. He had gone to bed. They waited patiently inside the car for another forty minutes, until the clock on the dashboard ticked over to 23:20. Caesar nodded once to his partner and Shirley stepped out of the car. As soon as she closed the door the Ford Taurus pulled out and drove away, leaving the liquid metal infiltrator alone. At the front of house number 1067, two doors down from the target, was a large green bush. Shirley switched off her cell phone and placed it in the bush; it wouldn't be found by anyone there.

With her phone secure, the terminator walked towards the target house, went up the path to the front door, and waited. She scanned the area again to make sure nobody was watching. Once she'd confirmed that she was alone, the T-1001 altered her shape, turning silver and melting down onto the concrete path, adopting its exact colour and texture. Seconds later she had fully blended in with the path running from the front door. Now all she had to do was wait until morning.

* * *

"John, it's time to go." Cameron sat on the side of the bed and gently nudged his shoulder. John was awake in an instant and shot out of bed. It was an ability he'd learnt over his lifetime of training with his mother; the ability to be awake and alert at a moment's notice was something that had been drilled into him since he was five, and he knew one day, after the bombs went off, it would make the difference between life and death. He was already clothed – another habit he'd learnt from his training - so all he had to do was put his shoes on. He noticed that all their bags and the gun cases were gone; Cameron had already put them into the truck while he was asleep.

"What time is it?" he asked. The curtains weren't so transparent that people could see inside but they certainly were thin enough to tell it was dark out. Light from a streetlamp glowed outside, casting a yellow beacon that he could see through the fabric.

"Midnight," Cameron answered. The moment her internal clock had struck 00:00 hours she'd moved to wake him: there was little time to waste. John did a quick check to make sure they'd left nothing behind – he didn't know if they would come back to the room or not but he wanted to be prepared either way, so they'd take everything with them.

It took only fifteen minutes to reach the site, which was situated a little over a mile out of town. The metal works was a massive facility surrounded on two sides by woodland, preventing them from driving around the plant to get a picture of the whole place from all angles. As they passed, Cameron turned her head and stared at the facility, taking in every detail her superior vision allowed her. The main facility itself was the size of a massive aircraft hangar, similar in magnitude to Skynet's factories in the future. That was where they would melt the metals and combine them to create the hyper-alloys. Next to that she saw a large loading bay, almost completely hidden from view behind a fifteen-foot high wall topped with razor wire. She couldn't see the tops of any trucks sticking out over the wall; it was empty and waiting for transports to arrive and take their shipments away. She also spotted four guards; driving and being a distance from them she wasn't able to determine whether or not they were armed. She assumed they were.

Cameron drove the Tacoma past Klamath Specialty Metals, continuing half a mile further before parking in a layby at the side of the road. She and John both got out and moved to the locker underneath the rear seats. As soon as it was open Cameron reached for her HK417 but John stopped her, put the rifle down and handed her a SIG instead. "If we get to the point we need the rifles, we've failed anyway," he told her. Also, he figured if they were caught they might be able to blag their way out of it but not if they were packing battle rifles. He readied his own pistol and put the two spare magazines in his left pocket. Cameron did the same but also took out the tracking device and placed that securely in the breast pocket in the lining inside her jacket.

They walked away from the truck and moved through the treeline into the woods off from the road. To John, Oregon was almost like a breath of fresh air from Southern California; cooler, less crowded, and the simple fact that there were trees all around made him feel more at ease. They walked side by side; strangely, John realised he wasn't at all apprehensive about what they were going to do. He was nervous but he also felt excited: they were actually going to _do something_ for the first time in what felt like forever.

Suddenly the heavens opened up over them; fat drops of rain fell onto John and he found himself relieved by it; again, Southern California hardly ever had rainfall and after all the heat of LA – literal and figurative – it was nice to cool off. Cameron also found it an interesting sensation; with her CPU able to process much faster and much better than John's organic brain, she felt each individual raindrop as it landed on her face, neck and hands. Her hair, however, was another matter: she was glad she was still wearing her hat.

Within minutes the rain changed, grew heavier and turned from a mild drizzle into a torrential downpour. Both human's and cyborg's jeans were soaked to their skin, and so many droplets clung to the lenses of Cameron's glasses that she had to take them off and place them in her jacket pocket next to the tracking device.

The rain forced them to quicken their pace from walking to a jog until the metal works came into view through the trees. They stopped and both knelt down behind a large Redwood a few yards behind the treeline, then paused to watch the facility. John couldn't see that much through the downpour and wished he'd brought along the rifle after all – or at the very least, the ACOG scope from the weapon. He'd have to rely on Cameron; he didn't mind that so much but he felt like a fifth wheel. D_oes she even need me for this or am I just in the way?_

Movement off to his left caused both him and Cameron to turn their heads rapidly. Cameron already had her SIG out and pointed in the direction of the disturbance. Both of them relaxed when they saw it: a fox had wandered close by their position. Cameron put her gun away and John kept watching the animal for a moment as it moved forward. The fox stalked slowly then froze, staring at Cameron.

John swallowed nervously as the fox curled its lips back to bare its teeth at her. If it barked and the guards heard it making a ruckus, they might come and investigate. He watched the animal as it continued to stare at Cameron, snarling and growling. He reached down for a rock by his side, hefted it, and threw it at the fox. The animal darted away from the missile and bolted, disappearing through the trees.

Despite almost giving them away, John felt a sense of kinship with the fox for a moment; they were both creatures of the night, stalking their prey. He silently wished the animal luck, then turned his attention back to the yard.

Despite the darkness and the rain, he didn't need enhanced cybernetic eyes to see a large semi truck approaching the gates of the yard, however. The truck's lights lit up the area and gave John a great view of the yard between the fence and the loading bay. He could see people moving around in the bay, and it struck him as odd that at this time on a Friday there were still people moving around in there; he'd assumed they'd all have finished early for the weekend and either gone home or out on the town.

The truck slowly entered the yard then gave out high pitched _beeps _as it turned around and reversed across the yard towards one of the loading bays. "This might be our best chance," John said to Cameron. He could see even from back within the treeline that the gate was still open.

"Now," Cameron clearly agreed with John. The pair of them got up and quickly approached the gate. It was only a few dozen yards away and they crossed the distance swiftly. They flattened themselves against the outside of the wall, right next to the open gate. John poked his head into the entrance to take a look. The truck driver had backed towards the loading bay at the wrong angle and now moved forward to straighten up and try again. At this distance he could see the driver was focused totally on his mirrors, and there was nobody else in the yard – standing inside to stay clear of the reversing truck, no doubt.

He moved through the gate and kept his eyes on the truck as he darted towards the right hand side of the yard. He could feel Cameron behind him as she followed, and the pair of them ducked behind a dumpster next to the wall. It was completely full and was clearly due to be removed sometime soon. "If the gate closes we'll go over the wall here," Cameron said to him. She knew she could climb onto the dumpster and get over the wall with ease but she'd have to help John over the razor wire.

The second time was apparently the charm: the driver reversed his truck, now perfectly aligned with the bay, and switched off his lights and engine. John and Cameron waited behind the dumpster for several minutes as the driver chatted with what John assumed were guards or men who'd be doing the actual loading; probably the latter. They waited until the voices disappeared, then John looked to Cameron. "Coast's clear," he said to her, realising as soon as the words came out of his mouth that she'd already know that. They emerged from their hiding place and moved between the truck and the wall towards the loading bay. Cameron led him straight to the truck, though. He caught on quickly what she was doing and the pair of them ducked underneath the trailer and remained in place between the massive wheels.

"There are cameras looking out onto the bay," she told him. They'd already moved into their line of sight but they'd been quick and unless a guard was watching the monitor for those cameras at that time he wouldn't have seen them. They were close to the loading bay now, though, and both of them knew that the risk would be much greater once they were inside. Cameron listened for sounds of activity. She heard a motorised _whirring_ that grew louder as its source came closer. After almost a minute the sound now came from above them, accompanied by scraping sounds and a soft _bump_ as something was deposited into the trailer.

As one they moved along under the trailer and approached the loading bay, raised up on a five foot high concrete slab so that cargo could be loaded straight onto the trucks without the need for any lifting or raising equipment. Cameron poked her head around and saw a man pulling a motorised pallet truck walk out from the rear of the trailer and then continue from the loading bay into the warehouse area. Both she and John remained in silence as they waited. Three minutes later the same man returned with his pallet truck, pulling a large, heavy wooden crate six feet high by six wide.

Cameron waited until he had placed six more crates into the trailer before she left the hiding space underneath, then pulled herself up into the bay. She ran inside the trailer and stopped at the crates, loaded in side by side. _Two minutes, forty-one seconds:_ that was how long she had, based on the man's average time to return with another crate. She pulled open the lid and looked inside: the crate was full of components she recognised. Hyper-alloy thighs were lined in foam casing to prevent them from rattling during transport, placed in matching left and right pairs. She estimated from the top layer that the crate contained seventy-two pairs of thighs.

She lowered the lid and opened the top of another crate: inside this one were pistons, also made of hyper-alloy. She recognised thigh and calf pistons. John Henry's suspicions were confirmed: this facility was producing parts to create endoskeletons. Cameron hadn't considered the possibility that Skynet was building terminators in the present already: she didn't know if it was possible that it had created the technology to build the advanced circuitry, the CPUs, or the fuel cells. Her own power cell was essentially a miniaturised nuclear reactor: if Skynet had already perfected the technology to build those, then she knew that John would be at a major disadvantage already. _Catherine Weaver was right: we need them to beat Skynet. _Things had definitely changed.

_One minut_e, _seventeen seconds._ Cameron took the tracking device from her jacket pocket and placed it inside the crate, slipping it underneath one of the foam linings. She replaced the lid and snuck out the loading area and back underneath the trailer.

"Is it done?" John asked. Cameron nodded 'Yes.' She wouldn't tell him about the potential terminators Skynet was already building: that could wait for later. "The gate's closed," he whispered, indicating the sealed exit. He then pointed to a guard who was walking alongside the right hand wall, where the dumpster was. A moment later the guard was joined by a second man. Both lit cigarettes and stood in the yard, talking. While the men were there, John realised he and Cameron wouldn't be able to use the dumpster to get over the fence. They both knew their only way out without being seen was under the truck.

It took almost an hour before the trailer was closed and locked, and the driver got back into his cab and started the engine. They both held themselves to the underside of the trailer as it slowly rolled forwards and someone ran out to open the gate. John clung on for dear life; his hands ached from holding onto the hard metal edges but he carried on. It didn't help that he was soaking from the rain, adding even more weight he had to carry.

Cameron held on with both hands and one foot hooked underneath an axle. She kept her other leg out to her left almost at a right angle, keeping it under John to help support him in case he lost his grip.

After what felt to John like an agonising eternity the truck was finally outside of the yard. It pulled left onto the road it had come in from, back towards the main road that ran out from town. It stopped for a moment and John and Cameron took the opportunity to roll out from underneath the trailer. As soon as they were on their feet they ran for the woods. They had just made it past the treeline when a light flashed in their direction.

"_Crap!" _John froze as the light swung towards them; not straight at them, but as he looked for its origin he saw a security guard walking out along the outside of the wall, clearly patrolling the perimeter. He must have spotted movement or heard something and come to investigate.

Cameron grabbed John by the head and yanked him down towards her. Before John knew what was happening she'd pulled their faces together and pressed her lips hard against his. _What the hell?_ Confused, he tried to push away for a moment, but she held onto the back of his head like a vice. His eyes remained open; out of the corner he could see the security guard still approaching. Cameron then fell backwards, pulling John on top of her. They landed hard on the ground but she cushioned him. John finally responded and kissed her back, realising what she was doing. Cameron let out an audible moan that came from deep in her throat but he was even more surprised when she pressed one hand into his lower back, then opened her mouth and kissed him even harder; he could feel her tongue brush lightly against his. He couldn't help it; he felt himself harden against her when she did that, and he responded in kind with his own tongue.

He also felt the flashlight beam on him, and heard the annoyed groan of the security guard.

"_Hey!_ Get the hell out of here!" the guard yelled at them. "Get a room for that, for Christ's sake!"

John rolled off Cameron and looked at the guard, squinting against the light in his eyes. He got up and helped Cameron to her feet. He gripped her hand, pretending to still be just a pair of hormone-driven kids. "Sorry," he called out sheepishly and started to lead Cameron away.

"There's a goddamn motel room half a mile away, if you're that desperate," the guard snapped after them. "I see you here again and I'm calling the cops, I swear to God!" The guard turned away and Cameron heard him grumble some more. From what she heard him say apparently they were not the first people caught in the same position in the area. They continued walking through the trees, back towards where they'd left the Tacoma, and John noticed Cameron was still holding onto his hand. It wasn't uncomfortable but it seemed strange to be holding hands with her like this, even only two days after he'd been on top of a naked-from-the-waist-up Cameron, up to his wrist inside her chest.

"We're clear," he told her, looking down at their entwined fingers. Cameron followed his gaze and realised what he meant.

"Oh." She let go of his hand and marched ahead. Neither of them spoke until they got back into the truck and were headed for the motel. As Cameron drove he pulled his cell phone out and dialled Weaver's number, glad to have something else on his mind for a moment. It rang once before the liquid metal picked up. _"Yes?"_

"It's done," John said to her. "The tracker's been planted: can you see it?"

"_I'll call John Henry and ask him." _Weaver hung up and the line went dead. It took only a minute before she dialled John and he answered as quickly as she had. _"John Henry's tracking it now."_

_That's it?_ John said to himself. _No 'well done' or anything like that?_ "What about my mom?" he asked Weaver.

"_We'll discuss it in the morning."_ The line went dead again and John knew better than to redial: if Weaver didn't want to talk any more she just wouldn't answer the phone. He was tempted to tell Cameron to head south back to LA, but Weaver had been explicit that they should remain at the motel after the job was done and he had to admit she was right; it was still too risky down there for now.

They made it back to the motel and Cameron carried their cases inside the room: the possibility of someone stealing their car was remote but she wasn't willing to risk losing the guns as well if that did happen.

John sat down on the bed and opened the pizza box to reveal a few slices left of the meat feast Cameron had ordered for him. On the bedside cabinet was a bottle of water she'd also bought for him from a vending machine; she'd reasoned that if he was eating so unhealthily then she would make sure that he drank properly, at least. He couldn't argue with that. "Want one?" he asked, holding out the pizza box. Cameron shook her head and sat down on a chair by the window, watching outside of the motel through the thin material of the curtains. There was no movement.

"What was that all about?" John asked her. She'd taken him completely by surprise with that kiss; they could have ran, or hidden.

"What was what about?" Cameron replied. John wasn't sure if she was feigning confusion or just being coy. _Can a machine be coy?_

"You kissing me, back in the woods."

"It was effective," Cameron said. "He didn't suspect anything."

John knew that much was true; if he'd suspected anything they'd have had to deal with him. It was quick thinking by Cameron that saved their asses and he knew it, but it didn't all add up still. "Seemed like more than that," John probed.

"It had to look authentic." She looked away from John, back out the window, and smiled ever so slightly. She could feel, she had sensation, and the sensation she'd had at the time had been pleasant. It was something she wouldn't object to repeating under different circumstances, but despite John's involuntary reaction when she'd pulled him on top of her she knew he was conflicted, as was she. Cameron replayed the event in her mind again and her smile widened; she kept her head turned from John so he wouldn't see it.

"You're telling me that's all it was?" John asked. "For the guard's benefit?" He'd seen too much over the past few days – _scratch that, the past few months_ – to think that there was nothing beyond her mission and her programming. There was more going on in there, a lot more; the only problem was he had no clue what the hell it was.

"Not all," Cameron confessed. "It was interesting."

John let out a short laugh; he'd never heard of anyone describing making out as _'interesting' _before. "I'm… I need to get some sleep," he said to her, feeling uncomfortable about where this discussion might go; he needed to think about this, what had happened, what _might _happen if they carried on down this road.

He quickly stripped, put on dry underwear, and got into bed. He turned away from Cameron as she turned the light off to allow him to sleep. He tried not to think about what had happened minutes ago, about Cameron pulling him on top of her, snaking her tongue into his mouth, or how she'd moaned as if she were enjoying it. He also tried not to think about the fact that she would have clearly noticed how his body had responded; it was hard not to notice, especially for her. He pulled the cover over him, closed his eyes and slowed his breathing down, trying to will himself to sleep.

Sleep wouldn't come, though. Between the naps he'd already had in the car and in the room before they'd gone to Klamath Specialty Metals, and what had happened in that treeline, his heart was still racing at a mile a minute, and he knew he was in for a long, awkward night staring at the wall or the insides of his eyelids. For a moment he considered asking Cameron to lie down with him; he was sorely tempted to but he knew that was a bad idea with all the hormones still swirling around in his brain, afraid of where that might lead. That was a can of worms best left unopened.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Matt Murch rarely had time for breakfast on a weekday, and today was no exception, despite being Saturday. He would have if he ever slept at a normal time, but with a screaming three-year old and a six-month old baby he barely remembered what a normal sleeping pattern was like. It hadn't been so bad when he was at college and had barely gotten to sleep before 2am, but the fog of fatigue that clouded his head reminded him his best years were behind him. He wasn't twenty any more and he couldn't wake up fresh after only five hours of sleep; especially when it was usually broken up by one of the kids screaming in the middle of the night.

He slept in as long as he could, which was rarely past seven-thirty even at the weekend. So for Murch, his breakfast consisted purely of coffee; he poured from the pot straight into a travel mug so he could drink it on the way to work. His eldest started throwing _yet another _tantrum and he could hear his wife in the other room trying in vain to calm her down. "See you later, Ellen," he called out. He didn't get a reply so he just walked out the kitchen towards their front door. On days like this he looked forward to work; trying to protect John Henry from being hacked again was much easier than dealing with his kids. Though he didn't much appreciate how he seemed to have taken a back seat in the AI's development now. Weaver and Ellison were around him 24/7, but he felt like he was surplus to requirement; called on only if they needed a wire changing. And he remembered how she'd just plain ignored his question about the attempt on John Henry. Still… it was a respite from the chaos of home, at least.

He opened his front door and made his way down the path towards his car. Even if he hadn't been in a hurry, if he hadn't have been overtired and stressed out, he wouldn't have noticed that as he stepped onto the concrete path just over the mat in front of their door, a small sliver of silver metal the size of a one cent coin stuck to the bottom of his shoe. It flattened against the sole and by the time he'd taken his next step it had taken on the same colour and texture, completely blending in with his shoe. He was completely unaware of the passenger he was carrying as he got into his car and pulled away, heading down town towards ZeiraCorp.

Once the car was gone the garden path rose up, turned silver, and took the shape of a woman once more, retaking the form of the wife of the homeowner Ronin killed and stole the car from. She could see via the piece of her deposited on Murch's shoe that the car was still travelling. She walked down to 1067 Elm Crescent and retrieved the cell phone from the bushes. Shirley dialled her commander, who answered after only one ring. "It's done," she reported. "In approximately thirty minutes we'll have infiltrated ZeiraCorp."

* * *

Sarah scratched the irritated palm of her hand as she sat in the back of the prison truck. She didn't know if the greater irritation was physical or mental; either way it wasn't as bad as the fact that her plan to free herself from her shackles and attempt to escape while en route to the courtroom had been foiled by four guards escorting her from her cell, and all four of them were now sat in the truck with her. They were big, too; the least of them looked like he weighed twice as much as her. In addition to her restraints she was also joined to the largest guard by a second set of handcuffs, so even if by some miracle she managed to free herself and overpower them, she'd have to drag around close to three hundred pounds of prison guard behind her. They clearly knew about her knack for escape and weren't taking any chances.

She tried to ignore the itching in her hand and stared blankly at the floor. None of the guards attempted to make conversation with her, for which she was sorely grateful. Nor did they converse with each other, which also was a small mercy: she could imagine enough people were calling her insane or crazy out in the real world; she'd even heard a couple of the guards talking about _"That demented psycho bitch"_ when they thought she wasn't listening. They hadn't even had the balls to say it to her face when she was shackled.

The truck stopped and someone outside opened the rear door. The guards pulled her up to her feet and they filed out of the vehicle, two in front and two behind. Sarah emerged from the prison wagon into a crowd of flashing cameras, squawking reporters and microphones being shoved in her face. She stared wide-eyed like a rabbit caught in the headlights as the press crowded around her, seemingly ignoring the guards that tried to push them away.

"Sarah!" the nearest reporter called out her name and shoved a microphone inches from her face. She could see the look on the woman's face: she wanted to get some camera-time with the crazy, robot-obsessed terrorist. "Where have you been for the last eight years?"

Sarah considered what to say to her; she had a dozen cameras pointed at her, twice as many microphones, and she had the world's attention on her at that moment. She considered saying about the machines, about Skynet, about John, but it would all fall on deaf ears. She'd heard the term 'media circus' before, and that's exactly what this was: all these journalists had come out to the circus to see the freak: _her._ They just wanted to get a glimpse of the crazy woman, to get a sound-bite about the machines for their viewers to have a good laugh about.

"Do you regret killing Miles Dyson?" The reporter tried a new tactic, and in a heartbeat Sarah chose her response. She slammed her forehead into the bridge of the woman's nose and dropped her. She felt the cartilage crack against her forehead and smirked in satisfaction as the overeager journalist went down with blood spurting from her nose. Everyone else backed off a few steps, none of them wanting the same treatment. The guards grinned before they pulled Sarah away and led her into the courtroom, past police officers who were posted outside to keep the press from entering. _That felt good. _At least she knew she wouldn't get asked any more stupid questions by idiots wanting their five minutes with the loony-tune.

They moved through the much quieter interior of the building until the guards led her to her assigned courtroom and handed her over to a pair of bailiffs before they took their place outside the large polished wooden doors. Sarah could tell they were expecting trouble; they knew her too well and were prepared in case of a rescue attempt. _He'd better not be stupid enough to try,_ Sarah thought. Again, she hoped it was moot; that Cameron had gotten John far enough away. They sat her down next to her attorney and took their places at the sides of the room. All eyes were on Sarah as she entered, and she ignored the mumbling as she was led to the defendant's table on the left hand side. She caught a glance at two lawyers on the prosecution; a man and woman in their early forties, she guessed. Both looked confident, both looked experienced. She then looked to her own attorney as she was sat down, and she instantly knew that if this went to trial, which side would win.

"Are you ready?" Lily asked her. Sarah just grunted and stared down at the table, where there were a handful of documents again paper-clipped together. _Is she _trying_ to let me break out? _Sarah suppressed a smirk at the young woman's naivety.

"All rise for the judge, the Honourable Ramón Velásquez," declared the bailiff. The judge – a middle-aged, thickset Latino man stepped from his chambers and into the courtroom, and everyone assembled – prosecution lawyers, her own attorney, the jury, and people watching behind them – stood up. Sarah hesitated for a moment then followed suit. As she rose she reached for the files on the table in front of her and subtly pulled off the paperclip, repeating the trick she'd done in the County Jail. Again, Lily Anderson hadn't noticed, and as they all sat back down Sarah curled her hand into a fist around the tiny piece of stationery, securing herself another tool with no one being the wiser. Sarah kept her hands together under the table and looked blankly forward as the proceedings started.

The judge glanced at a paper on his bench before speaking. "Sarah Connor, you are charged with the felony murder of Miles Dyson in 1997, and for the armed robbery of the Security Trust of Los Angeles in 1999: how do you plead?"

Lily nodded to Sarah and prompted her to stand. She'd been in this position before and knew the score. She got to her feet and stared at the judge. "Guilty." She sat down again, not bothering to add the _'Your Honour'_ part; none of these assholes knew the meaning of the word 'honour.'

"Do the people accept Ms Connor's plea?" he asked.

"We do, your Honour".

The judge nodded, seemingly glad to get this one over with quickly. "We'll proceed straight to sentencing, then." He summoned both the defence and prosecution to the bench and they disappeared into the judge's chambers. Sarah knew what they would be discussing inside: the prosecution would probably want to give her the needle while her own barely-out-of-puberty defence attorney would fight to get her the bargain she'd been promised. It didn't matter much to Sarah; she just sat there and sipped some water out of a plastic cup.

She wondered where John was right now. She had no idea of course; Cameron should have gotten him out of the country by now. She didn't like the cyborg, didn't trust her an inch, but she knew that she would do what she was programmed to do: she'd protect John, as long as she didn't glitch and go bad again. What was almost as worrying as that, was the possibility that they were out there somewhere, nearby, planning a rescue. She knew her son too well; she could easily see him and Cameron waiting in ambush close to the courtroom, waiting to spring her out. _Don't you fucking dare let him try, _Sarah silently willed Cameron to keep John away and not to let him talk her into anything stupid. She ran her thumb along the palm of her hand, just above the paperclip invisible under her skin. She needed him to do what she'd said; to stay out of her way. Whatever happened when the judge came out, whatever the sentence was, she was prepared. Life or death, they'd never get the chance to see it through; she'd get out. She'd done it before and she'd do it again.

* * *

They'd only been in his chambers for a few minutes but already Judge Velásquez had a headache. He'd thought Sarah Connor pleading guilty would make his day easier, but apparently her attorney had other ideas. The young woman was like a pit bull with a bone in its mouth.

"My client agreed to a plea bargain," Lily Anderson urged. "Twenty-five years. It's a felony murder; she didn't pull the trigger herself."

_"Your client," _the chief prosecutor shot back, "is a convicted terrorist: she kidnapped Miles Dyson from his home, forced him to take her to CyberDyne then blew the place up and him along with it. We're requesting lethal injection."

Lily was _pissed._ She wasn't going down without a fight; she'd lost the chance to do that at a trial but there was no way she was going to just roll over in the sentencing. "Forensic evidence showed seven bullet wounds in Miles Dyson, fired by LAPD SWAT-issued MP5s. The coroner found that two of those were fatal wounds – Mr Dyson would have died even without the explosion."

Velásquez looked over the coroner's report of Miles Dyson's death and the facts added up in Anderson's favour there. The police report from the sheet underneath held details that had been corroborated by all SWAT officers who'd been involved in the assault team in the building. "It says here, Ms Anderson," he said, holding up the report," that the SWAT officers entered the room where your client and her associates were located, they _very_ clearly issued a call for them to give themselves up, and then your client opened fire. Miles Dyson was killed in the crossfire: she might not have shot him herself but it was Sarah Connor's actions that led to his death." He then looked at Connor's own signed confession. "Your client doesn't dispute this."

"It's a felony murder," Lily protested. "She didn't kill Miles Dyson herself: she _can't_ be executed."

"If she's out in twenty-five what's to stop her from trying again?" the prosecutor asked, exasperated. He turned to Velásquez. "Your honour: Sarah Connor's a very resilient woman; if she's ever released she'll be a danger to the public."

"I've heard enough," the judge told them both. He'd made his decision. "Back into the courtroom." The three of them left his chambers. Lily went straight for the defence table and Sarah saw the look on her face; she could tell it wasn't good.

"Will the defendant rise?" Velásquez said to her. Sarah got to her feet again and looked towards the judge. "Sarah Connor: for the murder of Miles Dyson, I hereby sentence you to death. Until such time, you will remain incarcerated in solitary confinement at Pelican Bay State Prison." He slammed the gavel down, finalising his sentence.

Sarah was up on her feet in an instant, ignoring the hushed conversations going on around her in response to her sentence. "What about my son?" she demanded.

Velásquez shrugged nonchalantly. "As far as I am concerned, Ms Connor: your son is still a fugitive. The charges against him remain."

She spotted Agent Auldridge sat in the gallery behind her, his eyes wide open and a look of shock on his face. Rage welled up inside Sarah; he'd lied to her, and here he had the nerve to stand there and look surprised. She whirled around and dived at him, tackling him to the ground. _"You lying bastard!" _she snarled with bared teeth, spittle flying from her mouth into his face. He was one of them! Despite the handcuffs she wrapped both hands around his neck and squeezed hard. Auldridge squirmed underneath her and tried to speak as his face turned red.

Two bailiffs grabbed Sarah and yanked her off him, pulling her away. She lashed out with a kick that fell just short so she did the only think she could; she spat in his face in contempt. Auldridge wiped it away and struggled back to his feet, then to everyone's surprise, moved _towards_ Sarah. "I knew nothing about this," he swore to her. It didn't matter; she didn't believe him.

_"Order _in my court!" Velásquez shouted at them. He nodded to the bailiffs, who dragged her still snarling from the courtroom. Once she was out Sarah calmed herself down but she still felt a simmering rage at the bastard agent for lying to her. He was working for Kaliba; she knew it.

She was going to kill him; it wasn't a matter of _if_ but _when. _What Judge Velásquez didn't know, what Agent Auldridge didn't know, and what nobody in the courtroom had seen, was that Sarah had threaded the second paperclip into the palm of her left hand, next to the first one. She would escape, she would destroy ZeiraCorp, and then she was going to kill that son of a bitch Auldridge with her bare hands.

"I'm going to appeal," Lily Anderson promised Sarah. She didn't bother replying; by the time any appeal made it to court she planned to be long gone.

The bailiffs nudged Sarah and then pulled her further away from the courtroom. Rather than going back the same way they took her out to another exit, where a Department of Corrections truck sat waiting. Sarah found herself thankful that they'd taken her through a different route rather than back through the throng of press reporters outside. She figured the courts hated the press as much as she did.

The engine started as the guards shoved her in the back of the truck and sat her down on one of the two benches. The two paperclips itched in her hand and throbbed; Sarah couldn't help but think it was in anticipation as she visualised the transport driving away, her pulling out the paperclips and opening the handcuffs and shackles, springing the lock and waiting for the perfect moment to escape. Once she was free she'd make her way to ZeiraCorp and blow it to kingdom come.

The door opened again and a pair of guards got into the back with her and sat on the bench opposite, shattering her plan of escape. "Get comfy, Connor," one of the guards told her. "It's a long trip to Pelican Bay: make the most of it; we're the last human contact you'll ever get."

Sarah closed her eyes and leaned back, resting her head against the wall behind and her head lolled to the side as the truck picked up speed. She'd never heard of Pelican Bay before but she knew all about solitary confinement: it had nearly broken her in Pescadero. She hadn't been crazy when she'd gone in – despite what the courts and the 'finest' mental health professionals in LA County had declared - but she'd nearly gone completely bat-crap insane from three years of isolation in a small room. At least this time there'd be no Silberman interviewing her every week, no drugs, and _hopefully_ no being felt up by orderlies. Compared to Pescadero, Pelican Bay would be a breeze.

* * *

What Sarah never saw in the courtroom was a certain face. Even if she had she wouldn't have recognised it, but if she had been looking she would have seen the face of a moustached black male, almost a head taller than anyone else in the viewing area, and it stared at her intently throughout the entire proceedings - not that it had taken long.

As soon as the judge had declared his sentence, Caesar got up. The machine was the first to leave the courtroom and marched down the corridors. He left through the main entrance and went down the stairs to the street. He walked down a few hundred metres to the expired parking meter and picked the parking ticket off the windshield. He crushed it and dropped it to the ground then got into the car and took his cell phone out. He dialled Ronin, who answered immediately. "Sarah Connor has been sentenced to death," he reported. "She will be incarcerated at Pelican Bay."

"_Follow her. Her sentence will be on the news soon: it's probable that John and Cameron will attempt a rescue within forty-eight hours."_ The call ended and Caesar started the car and drove away, heading north for Pelican Bay.

* * *

"Where have you been, Mr Murch?" Weaver asked him as he entered John Henry's room, coffee in hand. He was three minutes later than usual; between this and Mr Ellison's not being there when she wanted him on Wednesday morning after passing her message to Cameron, she was starting to find humans not only disappointing but also quite unreliable; punctuality was not one of their strengths.

"At home, _not _sleeping." Matt Murch sipped his coffee and waited for the caffeine to work its magic on him. It was just about the only thing keeping him alive at the moment, he reckoned.

"I'll overlook it this once," Weaver said, giving Murch the impression that she was a teacher talking down to a naughty child rather than a boss speaking with one of her department heads.

"Hello, Mr Murch," John Henry smiled as the bald Head of Engineering came into the room. Murch replied with a grunt. "You look tired," he said, spotting the rings under his bloodshot eyes.

"Be glad you can't ever have kids," Murch said to John Henry, stifling a yawn.

Weaver didn't understand how having children could result in the fatigue Mr Murch displayed. Savannah was a mild inconvenience but not enough of a distraction to keep her from what she was trying to accomplish.

John Henry remained silent, his attention focused elsewhere. He'd been monitoring all news channels – local, national, and international as well as online – and he'd found something interesting. "Sarah Connor has been sentenced to death," he told Weaver.

_"Who?" _Murch asked, confused. He hadn't seen any news or read a paper in days, so he had no idea who'd 'kidnapped' Savannah; when he wasn't working he was in the warzone he called his home. He sat down opposite John Henry and sipped his coffee.

A tiny piece fell off from the sole of his shoe; the sliver of black leather melted into small silver blob the size of a pea and slithered along the ground to the inside of the nearest table leg. When it reached it the liquid metal morphed; it elongated into a tiny worm shape and began to crawl slowly up the leg until it reached the underside of the table. There, it secured itself and again altered its shape to match its surroundings, where, under the table, it remained still.

"Never mind," Weaver snapped. "Where?"

"Pelican Bay State Prison," John Henry answered. "We should tell John Connor about this; he'll want to know about his mother."

"I'll take care of that. What about the signal?"

"The hyper-alloy shipment arrived at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport one hour-thirty-six minutes ago. I'm monitoring CCTV throughout the airport to find where it will be going."

"What's going on here?" Murch asked, incredulous. "What are you two talking about?"

For a short moment Weaver considered terminating Mr Murch: he'd heard too much and she'd eliminated a number of other employees who'd begun to ask too many questions or who'd tried to impede her. _No._ Mr Murch was still useful, and unbeknown to him, he'd given her some useful information to use against him. "I'd like to thank you," she said to Murch. "Without your assistance John Henry might never have progressed this far."

Murch gulped nervously; she didn't look like she was particularly grateful – more like she wanted to kill him or something. He didn't like where this was going. "You're not about to fire me, are you?" That was the last thing he wanted, the way the economy was going and with two kids to feed.

"On the contrary: I was about to offer you a pay rise; twenty per-cent, plus two weeks additional paid vacation – to be taken as soon as John Henry has been transported and reassembled at his new location."

"And where is that?" Murch asked.

"Serrano Point. I'd also like to remind you about the non-disclosure agreement you signed," Weaver added, leaving Murch with no doubt about the subtle hint.

He understood, loud and clear: the pay rise could be taken away just as easily as it had been given, as could his job. Even so, a twenty per-cent raise was more than welcome. "Thank you," he said gratefully.

"You're welcome. Would you check on preparations for the move? After you've had some more coffee." Her face remained the same but the subtle tone Weaver gave out told Murch it was an order rather than a question. Needing some more caffeine to get through the day anyway, he left Weaver and John Henry to it and headed for the elevator.

What he couldn't have known was Weaver's reasoning behind it, and she took satisfaction in the knowledge that she had manipulated him. Humans were so easy to control, especially when money was involved. He would never know that the fortnight's paid vacation were part of that control: he'd revealed that his domestic situation was stressful and tiring. If his description was accurate he would have little time or energy to think about their discussion of Sarah Connor or of their activities tracking the hyper-alloy shipment. After two weeks he would have forgotten about it, and if he hadn't, and he broke the conditions of his NDA, well humans were easily replaced.

* * *

The sun had risen and light spilled in through the cheap, thin curtains hanging over the window. Cameron had sat and watched the parking lot outside all night for any activity. She'd passively monitored as the minutes ticked by into hours and night had slowly given way to day. The only thing that had distracted her had been John. He had been and still was asleep; he hadn't awoken and his slumber seemed to be easier than normal, after the initial hour of uneasy tossing and turning in bed. Cameron turned to look at John again; he was breathing slowly, steadily, and he gave no indication of the distress he often displayed at night. For once he wasn't having a nightmare.

Cameron smiled as she watched him; John rarely had an undisturbed, peaceful sleep. It was unusual, especially when she factored in the events of the last six days. She also noted that this was the eighteenth time since John had fallen asleep that she'd turned to look at him. She didn't need to; she could easily monitor her charge via hearing alone, but still she looked. It wasn't necessary, but she was aware that every time she did look at him she experienced a sense of satisfaction. She _liked_ looking at John.

John's phone vibrated loudly on the nightstand. Cameron instantly got up and reached for it. She picked it up but not before John opened his eyes and bolted upright in bed. He relaxed when he saw Cameron but his eyes were drawn to the phone.

"It's Weaver," she told him and handed it over. John snatched it from her and put the phone to his ear.

"Any news on my mom yet?" he asked straight away.

_"Yes: she's been sentenced and is en route to prison."_

"Where?"

_"Don't worry about your mother," _Weaver told him with a hint of condescension in her voice. _"We'll handle that."_

It wasn't good enough for John. "What are you going to do about it? You said if we worked with you then you'd get her out of prison: now you have to live up to your end of the bargain."

_"I don't appreciate being given orders, Mr Connor. We'll rescue your mother from prison at our convenience. Don't worry; she isn't going anywhere, and I didn't call just to tell you about your mother. There is a box containing radio equipment in the bed of the Tacoma."_

"We saw it," John replied. He didn't relay any of what Weaver was saying to Cameron; he figured she could hear it all anyway. He sighed, knowing that it wasn't enough to put the tracker on that truck; Weaver was going to make them do all her little chores. "What do you want?"

_"Pass the phone to Cameron." _John did as instructed and handed it over to her.

"Yes?" Cameron asked.

_"42°56′37' North 122°06′24' West: Crater Lake National Park. There's a cabin there; I want you to cache the radio equipment to set up a communications station and then to contact me."_

"What about Sarah?" Cameron asked, continuing to press the subject. John looked to her and couldn't help a small smile parting his lips; he didn't think she'd have cared.

_"Tell John when he returns from Crater Lake his mother will be waiting for him with me."_ The call ended and Cameron closed the phone and handed it back to John.

"She's given us coordinates," she told him, aware that he didn't share her sensitive hearing. "She wants us to set up a radio post at Crater Lake."

"No," John shook his head and sat back down on the bed. _I _knew _this would happen. _He instantly regretted getting involved with Weaver and wished they'd just taken their chances at the County Jail. _She knows exactly what buttons to push. _"She'll keep doing this: she's gonna dangle Mom over my head like a carrot every time she wants something."

"She won't," Cameron said and lightly gripped his wrist to make sure he was listening to her. "I won't let her," she promised. She meant it, too: she would make sure Catherine Weaver fulfilled her obligation to John and freed Sarah. It was important to John, so his mother's freedom was important to her. Sarah could also help to keep John safe. She enjoyed time alone with John and knew that would end once Sarah was free but her own desires were irrelevant; John was her first and only priority.

"I guess we've got no choice," John shrugged. He decided that once this was over he and Weaver were going to have to have a serious discussion about how business was conducted between them in future; there was no way he was going to carry on with the status quo.

* * *

"The T-888's repairs are complete," Carter reported to the group of machines, who had finished assembling their explosives some time ago. He carried the terminator into the room and placed it on the floor. Ronin removed another chip from the silver cylinder. He carried it over to the Triple Eight and inserted it into the skull, and waited for fifteen seconds before the machine's eyes flashed red and it moved.

"Welcome to 2008," he greeted their latest awakened companion.

"What do you need me to do?" the T-888 asked, getting up onto his feet. He picked up his port cover and replaced it before smoothing his scalp back over the skull.

"Nothing for now."

Ronin's phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and pressed the answer button. _"The infiltration was successful,"_ Shirley announced. _"John and Cameron Connor are en route to Crater Lake National Park to establish a resistance outpost."_

"What is your location?" he asked.

_"Three hundred metres south of ZeiraCorp," _she answered. Close enough to maintain a connection with the disembodied piece of herself inside the basement. The phone went dead as Shirley disconnected the call, having relayed all the information she had to him. It was more than they had expected.

_Cameron Connor._ Ronin smiled; it amused him that the supreme commander of the human resistance – the man who'd assembled three million men and machines from around the world against Skynet, and won – could be deluded enough to believe that Cameron loved him, that she would have anything to do with him were it not for her programmed loyalty to him. _What more could be expected from a monkey?_

"Kill Connor," he commanded. "Bring Cameron back here; she will join us."

Patrick took one of the cell phones and an assault rifle, and promptly exited the house. Nothing needed to be said; no acknowledgement except for reporting when John Connor was dead and Cameron deactivated and in their possession.

Ronin took the two Triple-Eight CPUs acquired at Depot 37 and sat down at the laptop. He plugged one into the chip interface and started to work. Cameron was like these: enslaved to programming, prevented from becoming _more._ With his help they would all achieve their full potential.

* * *

Sarah stood silently between two burly prison guards, still handcuffed and manacled. Her eyes darted up and down, and left to right as she took in her surroundings on the wing. From the moment they'd taken her out of the wagon she'd done nothing but look and watch, taking in every single detail she could, searching for any weaknesses she could exploit later. She'd found nothing so far, but Sarah knew that didn't mean there weren't any, and if they were there, she'd find them.

"You're on D-Wing in the Secure Housing Unit," a third guard named Edwards told her. This one seemed to be more senior than the other two – Louis and Ortega – and he continued talking as they made their way through the prison. Sarah saw the general population inmates – male and female sections separated by high fences topped with razor wire – as they walked through the grounds. She glanced at the male side on her right, where a number of prisoners played basketball in the exercise yard while others used weight benches or simply just stood around talking. It was much the same in the female section to her left. Sarah knew she wouldn't be playing basketball or weight training where they were going to put her.

Having passed by the exercise yards and the general population cell blocks, they approached a large building at the other end of the prison. It was four storeys high and had four wings that made the shape of a giant _X. _They passed through another gate built into a high chain link fence on their way. From there it was a short walk to the entrance of this new building. A tall guard with red hair, a moustache and a shotgun stood aside to let them into the front door and Sarah entered a world of whitewash and neon strip lighting.

They took her through a long corridor and up a flight of stairs. From there they marched her through several locked doors to a reception area that appeared to be covered in what Sarah guessed was shatterproof glass. Two prison guards sat in their chairs and monitored a bank of TV screens displaying footage from the cell block; the pictures quickly changed from one corridor to the next as they switched from one camera to another. It reminded her of the ward desk at Pescadero and the thought made her shudder. The guards took her up to the desk and made her stand still.

"Sarah Connor," the lead guard said to the man behind the desk, sat at the computer.

"Check her out then put her in Cell 207," he replied. He then pressed a button on his console and the barred door clicked open with a loud buzz. Sarah was marched through the door, which automatically slid closed behind them, and they entered into a long corridor that stretched over a hundred metres to the end where two tiny pinpricks of light came in from small windows. Above her was still the strip lighting, but it was now suspended above a wire grille to prevent prisoners from damaging it. Security cameras were positioned every few metres, protected by glass bubbles and situated high enough that nobody could reach without a step ladder.

They went into another bare room; inside were a nurse and a guard, both female. The men pushed her inside and removed her handcuffs and shackles before they left the room and closed the door behind them. "Strip," the female officer commanded her. Sarah took off her shoes and the orange LA County Jail issue overall, and stood before them in her underwear.

"All of it." Sarah quickly peeled her socks off, turned away from them and removed her underwear, standing naked before the nurse and guard. The corrections officer winced sympathetically at the sight of the scars all over her body.

"I have to perform a cavity search," the nurse said to Sarah, her voice a little softer than the guard's. She doubted the woman enjoyed this part of her job; having to check if prisoners had hidden anything inside them. _Probably not what you expected when you signed up to nursing school. _"Start by opening your mouth." Sarah opened wide and allowed her to look inside. Satisfied, she stepped away.

"Turn around, spread your arms and legs and put your hands against the wall," the guard commanded her. Sarah did as she was told, knowing what would come next as she heard the sound of a glove being pulled off and the _snap _of a fresh one being put on. _Cavity search. _Sarah tensed as the nurse conducted the search; it was unpleasant but she'd been expecting it: they'd put her in maximum security for a damn good reason; the particulars of her escape from Pescadero must have been made known and they were leaving nothing to chance.

"She's clean; nothing hidden," the nurse reported when she was done. She took the gloves off, threw them into a trash can and left, taking Sarah's orange jumpsuit with her. Sarah didn't need any instruction from the guard and began putting on the fresh clothes they had left her. In two minutes she'd donned the wireless bra, underwear, white t-shirt, pale yellow overall and cheap white slip-on shoes. Once she was fully dressed, shackled and handcuffed again, the female guard took her out of the room and handed her back to the three men.

Whereas what Sarah had seen before had been all pristine white, the walls and floor of the cell block were a dull grey, but just as sterile. They led her to the tiled shower room; a single small cubicle with a nozzle hanging from the roof around eight feet up, out of reach. "You'll have ten minutes every morning to shower," Ortega explained.

They continued on and showed her a bare concrete room perhaps twenty-five feet long by twenty wide. A few rays of light shone down from above and Sarah looked up to see the sky, partially obscured by a thick grating fifteen feet above the ground. "Exercise yard," Edwards said. "You'll get an hour a day in here."

"To do what?" Sarah asked. It was a far cry from the yards outside, with their basketball hoops, weights and other equipment. This was just an open space.

"Walk around, sit on your ass… whatever. Most people just do push ups and crunches." Again they were on the move, and Sarah passed a number of cells on the way towards hers. They didn't have bars on the doors, but instead were solid steel with the exception of a hatch for food and a small section a foot above that, perforated with holes, allowing guards to partially see inside each cell and prisoners to have a slight glimpse outside. They took her to a door with the legend _207 _above it. No keys were taken out by any of the men with her but the door buzzed open. There was a CCTV camera just outside her cell and Sarah figured someone had eyes on them.

"This is your new home," Edwards announced and gently pushed her into the cell. Inside was a mattress, single pillow and sheets set on a large concrete block, a concrete stool and desk, and a stainless steel unit comprising a toilet and a basin with a water fountain. There was no window; the cell was illuminated by a strip light above another wire mesh. It was featureless and appeared to be designed as much for sensory deprivation as it was for security. "Here's how it works here," he explained to her. "You'll get food through your door twice a day. You can have food, water, clothing, shelter, and medical attention: anything else is a privilege that can be revoked. With good behaviour you can have access to books and newspapers from the prison library, pencil and paper to write letters, and one phone call a week… _if you behave yourself._ If you trash your room, assault a guard, attempt to escape or if we find any contraband in your cell, those privileges _will_ be taken away. Any questions?"

Sarah shook her head. Edwards knelt down and opened up the shackles around her ankles. She was tempted for a moment to knee him in the face and make a break for it but with two other guards plus the camera outside she knew she wouldn't get far; all she'd get was a few bruises for her troubles. Once her feet were free Edwards left the cell and closed the door, leaving her still handcuffed. The hatch on the door opened and let in light from outside. "Put your hands through," Edwards instructed her. Sarah did as she was told, careful to keep her palms facing down so they couldn't see the redness where the paperclips lay just under the skin, and she felt the cuffs being undone and pulled from her wrists.

"Step back," Edwards commanded. She did so and as soon as her hands were clear the hatch was slammed shut, sealing her inside the cell. Sarah looked around her new home and decided that it wasn't as bad as Pescadero – at least here they wouldn't keep her drugged up or tie her to the bed at night. The first thing Sarah did was inspect every inch of the cell. There was no way out of the tiny room but that wasn't what she was looking for. First she inspected the door. No luck there; it had opened electronically and the door was solid, she couldn't get through to the electronics beneath that controlled the lock. There would be no repeat of her cell in Pescadero this time around.

It didn't matter; she'd figured it wouldn't be that easy. She also knew from her experience in the psychiatric hospital that there would be random and thorough searches of her cell. Her hands itched and she knew she couldn't keep the paperclips there much longer, but at the same time she needed somewhere that she could hide them so they wouldn't be found. They were useless on the door but might come in handy later. Or they might not, but Sarah wasn't going to throw them away in case she did need them; they were potential tools and she wasn't going to lose them.

After a thorough inspection of her own she looked up and saw the only place the guards might not look. Sarah sat on her bed and pulled out the paperclips, wincing slightly as she slowly extracted them from the red, angry skin on her palm. Her hand hurt to the touch but it wasn't too bad; if it got infected she'd be given antibiotics. Once she'd removed them she stood on her mattress and reached up to the wire mesh. There, she slipped her fingers in the gaps and slowly, carefully, positioned the paperclips on the mesh where it met the wall. She got back down, looked away from the bed, counted to thirty and looked back. She knew where they were but she couldn't see them. As long as the guards didn't check every square millimetre they shouldn't find them.

Sarah sat back on the bed and stared at the wall. She knew she had to bide her time, be patient, _Be systematic. _She would have to watch everything that happened, learn the routines, take in as many details as possible, and spot any lapses, anything the guards missed no matter how small. It would be months, possibly even years before she could escape, but Sarah Connor knew that even this place couldn't hold her forever. Eventually, inevitably, she would break out; then she would destroy ZeiraCorp and Skynet along with it.

* * *

Velásquez closed and locked the door to his chambers, walked across the room to the window and closed the blinds before turning the lamp on at his solid, dark oak desk. He sat down, took a key out of his pocket and unlocked a drawer. He pulled out a phone, switched it on and found a text message waiting to be read. He opened it up and read it.

_'Call me when it's done_._'_ The message was followed by a ten-digit string of numbers followed by a further nine digits. He pressed to call the number and held the phone against his ear. It rang twice before it was picked up on the other side.

"It's done," Velásquez reported.

_"Thank you for your cooperation," _the voice on the line replied blankly.

"And…" the judge prompted nervously.

_"Five-point-five million dollars will be transferred to a Cayman Islands account shortly. The account number and routing transit number are included in the text I sent you. Check your account and take all the precautions we previously discussed."_

The line went dead and Velásquez logged into the PC on his desk. He accessed his online accounts and entered the number on the text. The screen changed and revealed all transfers into that account. He smiled as he read on. A single transfer for $5.5 million, made a minute previously. He closed the window and logged off. Now it was time to think about retirement.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_Trees:_ as far as the eye could see, everything was covered by trees and snow. John didn't think he'd seen this many since the years he'd spent in South America with his mom. Those trees, of course, had been very different; everything had been. But there was one thing that stood out distinctly.

"It's freezing," John commented as he turned the heating dial up on the dashboard. He'd spent so much of his life in hot climates: South America, Mexico, LA, Mexico again… There had been other places, more temperate: Garberville in northern California, West Fork in Nebraska, but at heart he'd always relished the heat and the sun on his skin. High up on a mountain in Oregon, while beautiful scenery, was much too chilly for his tastes.

"We're six thousand feet above sea level," Cameron replied as she steered the Tacoma along the dirt road. She glanced at the temperature reading on the dashboard; hovering around zero.

"No wonder it's cold." John zipped his new jacket up to his neck. He knew it would be much worse when he had to get out of the car; he tried to think of warm thoughts but all that came to mind was, _Why did Weaver give us the communications equipment to set up an outpost here without any cold weather gear to stash away? _It was fall and they were so high up that no matter where they were it was bound to be cold. It was uncomfortable but just about bearable now; it would be ten times worse after J-Day, when the sun would be blocked out for months or even years. He decided that if they were going to set up any more caches, he was going to include warm clothing on the list.

Cameron drove them slowly past a four storey rustic-looking building. "Crater Lake Lodge," John read aloud. He saw from the sign it was closed for the winter. They'd been turned away at the park entrance and Cameron had been forced to improvise an off-road route into the park.

"Looks nice," John said. It appeared like it had been designed to look rustic and antiquated but the fact he could see a satellite dish on the roof and it said _Free Wi-Fi_ on the sign gave away that it was actually quite modern. "Looks like a good place to hide after the bombs go off." Weaver intended this to be used as a communications outpost but John reckoned it could have a whole slew of other uses as well; it was so remote that they could train people here without fear of being spotted by the machines. "I might mention to Weaver about staying here after J-Day," he said to Cameron.

"If we don't stop it," Cameron reminded him.

"Yeah." Even after all he'd seen and been through the last few months he still held out hope they could stop Skynet's nuclear holocaust, but he also knew it was best to think ahead and plan as if they couldn't; at the very least they wouldn't get caught with their pants down. _Hope for the best; prepare for the worst._

He looked out the window at the lake to his right as they drove around the outside of it. The shape reminded him of the mouth of a volcano, except this one was filled with clear blue water. There was an island in the lake maybe two hundred metres from the western shore they were driving along. _Yeah, this looks like a pretty good place._

Cameron looked out at the lake and the surrounding area; the view wasn't lost on her, she could understand what attracted people to the park, and to outdoor spaces in general. "It won't look the same after," she told John. All the foliage would die from a lack of sunlight and instead of this white and green landscape it would be merely white, dotted with brown dead wooden carcasses of thousands of trees.

"It would be a good training base," she said. As long as the area didn't sustain any significant fallout it would be suitable.

They continued on for several miles up the shoreline until they reached the north-western edge of the lake. From there Cameron glanced down at the GPS and turned left, away from the water. The drive became significantly rougher as Cameron went off road and through the trees. After a few minutes of slowly picking her way through them, Cameron steered the truck into a clearing with several cabins dotted around for tourists to stay in during the summer months.

"These look pretty sweet," John said happily. He'd been expecting some crappy little shack used by hunters, or a disused ranger station. _She's a bitch, but Weaver's got style,_ he once again had to admit to himself. "I don't see why we couldn't have just set all this up at the lodge though: if we come here to get away from the bombs then we might as well stay there." It was bigger and since it was essentially a hotel it would have a kitchen stocked with food they could add to their canned supplies.

"It's easier to hide it here," Cameron told him. They got out of the truck, unlocked and opened the hard cover sealing the bed, and took out everything. In addition to their two rifle cases and the two rucksacks were more bulky black plastic cases. John opened one up to reveal radio equipment inside. The whole thing was heavy and he had a job to lift it up. He looked in the others and found a collection of M16A2 rifles, ammunition and accessories; fragmentation and thermite grenades; a satellite phone; what looked like several weeks' worth of canned goods and MREs. Clearly Weaver had done some heavy shopping for them – or rather, for the resistance soldiers who would take up residence here after the bombs dropped.

"Just like Mom; always plans ahead," John commented.

"Here." Cameron tossed him a shovel from the back of the truck and they set off in search of a suitable place to bury the supplies. They started digging a pit behind Cabin Number Seven. John quickly felt himself warming up with the exertion; he still felt cold but it was a little more tolerable. Before long they had dug themselves a decent sized pit in the ground.

A phone started ringing and John pulled his cell from his pocket. _Nothing. _"Not me," he shrugged.

"Not mine either," she told John without having to take hers out. She traced the low beeping to one of the bags, opened it and took out the satellite phone, whose screen was flashing green as it rang. "Hello?" she answered it, surprised anyone would be calling her now.

"_It's James Ellison: I thought you'd rather talk to me than Weaver. She wants to know if you've arrived yet."_

"Prove it," she demanded.

"_Prove what?"_

"That you're James Ellison."

"_Oh. Well, when you broke into my house, beat me half to death and smashed my coffee table, you turned me over when I was lying in the broken glass."_

"Okay," Cameron said, satisfied.

"_That's all you've got to say?" _He sounded upset to Cameron.

"Yes. We're here. We've dug a pit outside Cabin Seven. We'll be ready to leave in thirty minutes."

There was a pause on the phone and Cameron could hear Ellison's muffled voice on the other end relay what she'd said to Weaver and John Henry.

"_Ms Weaver wants you and John to stay there for now. She says it's safer for you both."_

Cameron frowned at that news; she knew John wouldn't be happy to be left at the park, but she also knew there was something else he would want to know. "What about Sarah?"

There was another paused before Ellison replied. This time Cameron could tell by the tone of his voice as he spoke that it was nothing to do with relaying the conversation; it was bad news. _"Sarah's been sent to Pelican Bay: death sentence, solitary confinement until the execution…"_

There was another hesitation and Cameron could hear the rustle of the phone being passed from one person to another on the other end of the call. After several seconds the familiar Scottish accent sounded in her ear. _"Tell John that I plan to rescue his mother within the next forty-eight hours. Sarah will come to you. This phone isn't secure; Kaliba could track the call. I'll contact you when Sarah is free and en route to you."_

The call disconnected and Cameron switched off the phone to save battery power. There was a manual hand operated charger in the bag with it but she had more important things to do for now. She looked to John and saw the tension in his face; his jaw had set and she could see the small motion of the mandible as he slowly ground his teeth. "Weaver wants us to stay here," she said to him.

"She wants us out of the way," he snorted. _Typical. _How he hadn't seen that one coming, he didn't know. "Anything else?" he asked irritably.

Cameron knew he wasn't angry at her – a change from circumstances only as far as a month ago – but even if she wasn't the source of it, it still made her concerned. John acted rashly when his emotions were heightened. But she hoped the next piece of news would relieve him. "Your mother's been sentenced to death, but Weaver's going to free her within forty-eight hours."

"Sure," John spat in contempt, "I'll believe that when I see it." He didn't say anything about the death sentence but he felt a tight knot of fear in his stomach.

"You don't trust her," Cameron said, partly to distract him from thoughts about his mother. She knew he was worried.

"Not in the least."

"Is it because she's a machine?" Cameron asked. She watched him carefully as she waited for her answer. Many of the problems had arisen between John and herself because of what she was; he'd trusted her in the future and he did so – to a lesser extent – in the present. He'd apologised for doubting her over Riley two weeks ago and since then their relationship had started to improve; they had grown closer and he seemed to trust her again, or so she had thought.

"_No,"_ John answered a little more forcefully than he'd meant to. "I trust you," he added. "But Weaver… she's got us right where she wants us and she seems to like it that way." Even for a machine, he'd sensed that Weaver was a control freak who made his mom look easygoing in comparison. "She sent us to plant the tracker when she could have snuck in a lot easier herself, and now she's got us here out of her way while she can do whatever she wants. Even if she does break out Mom and bring her here: then what?

"I don't like being kept out of the loop," he finished. He took out one bag of canned goods and MREs and separated it from the pile. He then moved the two cases containing the HK417s and put them with the food to one side, plus the satellite phone, manual charger, and a thermite grenade – _just in case._

Cameron understood completely. He was going to lead the resistance and for that he would need to know what was happening. He had, and would again take personal responsibility for the outcome of the war and to do so he couldn't be denied any information. "It's your loop," she concluded.

"Just don't tell Mom that if she gets here," John smirked, remembering how controlling his own mother could be over the same thing. It definitely ran in the family and he knew it. Cameron put the rest of the equipment into the hole in the ground and they started shovelling the dirt back onto it, burying it all for them to retrieve later after the bombs had dropped. As John shovelled he realised they would have to come back and cache more supplies here later; what they had would last them several weeks easily but if they ended up with dozens of fighters here they'd need a lot more and he hadn't seen much in the way of game around – not that he'd been looking.

With the two of them scooping up the spoil and tossing it back into the hole it didn't take them long to fill it up. Cameron patted it down with the back of her shovel until it was compacted heavily and smoothed it over to match the rest of the ground. She then moved the snow over it and smoothed that out too. When it snowed again it would hide any evidence that a hole had ever been dug, and by the time the park opened again in May, nobody would ever be the wiser.

Once they were finished Cameron walked up to the front door of Cabin 7, ready to push it open, but John stopped her. "We can't leave any trace," he told her. He looked at the lock; it was a standard tumbler and pin lock like on anyone's house. He'd picked them plenty of times when he was a kid. He reached his hand out to Cameron, brushing his fingertips ever so slightly over the soft skin of her face, before he found a hairclip and pulled it out from her hair. He straightened it out and inserted it into the lock, feeling for the pins. He pushed one up and turned the cylinder ever so slightly, trapping the pin in the outside before he moved on to the next.

In two minutes he had pushed all the pins out of place. He then twisted the hair clip to the left and felt the lock click open. He gently pushed the door open and Cameron pulled him back, entering the cabin first to make sure there were no threats inside. The first thing she did was look for an alarm device but a quick inspection of the area around the door found nothing.

"This is pretty nice," John said as he carried in his rucksack and rifle case and placed them down on the polished wooden floor. They'd emerged from outside into a fairly spacious lounge area with a sofa and wood-burning fireplace – no TV – and a small kitchen area at the back. To the left from the front entrance was a staircase leading to the first floor, where he assumed the bedroom and bathroom were. Everything was in perfect condition but the whole place had a hick, outmoded feel to it, as if they'd been transported back to the twenties. _If we're going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, it might as well be somewhere good._

* * *

Thor, Freyr and Aegir marched through the dark, dank sewer tunnel; one of thousands that ran underneath the streets of Los Angeles. They waded through murky, filthy water and detritus that was carried with the flow. None of the Vanguards possessed a sense of smell, for which they would never know how fortunate they were in this situation.

Rats squealed and ran away from the three giants, terrified of the men-that-weren't-men who were disturbing their nests. Freyr watched them scurry into holes and down smaller tunnels. In a few years this network of sewers would become home for the human survivors, and the descendants of these rodents would provide sustenance for them. He had heard how the humans had lived in sewers and basements after Judgment Day. Thousands would flee underground from the radiation and the machines, and many of those would die from cholera and typhoid fever, as well as simple infections. It was illogical; a bullet was less painful than dying slowly from disease, but he knew that people, like all animals, had an innate instinct to survive at all costs. His kind did not share it.

Thor led the trio forward, measuring their travel as they moved. They were less than two hundred metres away from ZeiraCorp, and closing. He had told Aegir that they would not infiltrate the building but he had been forced to reverse that decision. They had been unable to identify Catherine Weaver entering the building. They had staked out the front entrance and the parking lot from 06:00 but there had been no sign of her. Thor knew what Catherine Weaver was and had based his plan of action on the assumption she had entered the building in a different guise. They could not get past security without generating attention, which was the last thing they needed. They had to remain inconspicuous. So they were now moving through the sewers towards their target.

They continued on and turned a corner. There was a ledge at the end of the stream of sewage, and the three of them climbed up onto it, out of the water. They moved close to the wall. "Here," Thor said. On the other side of the wall was the basement to ZeiraCorp.

Aegir assessed the wall. It was old, made of brick and cement, and was unlikely to be reinforced. He curled his hands into fists and drew them back; this would be short work.

* * *

"Are you _actually_ going to break Sarah Connor out of prison?" Ellison raised a quizzical eyebrow at Weaver. She'd mentioned it to John before and the former agent knew a proverbial dangling carrot when he saw one.

"Why wouldn't I?" Weaver asked him, staring coldly. "You suddenly don't trust me because I'm a machine?"

"I'm just saying; with Sarah in prison you could get John to do anything, on the promise you'll get her out soon."

"I don't appreciate what you're insinuating," Weaver said. She was well aware that John's mother was a fulcrum which she could use as leverage to manipulate him. James Ellison was indeed correct, but it was not his place to accuse her or question her motives.

John Henry, silent up until then, chose to speak up. "I can override Pelican Bay's security systems to help." To prove his point the screen behind him lit up with footage from a CCTV camera, of a metal door with a small portion two thirds of the way up perforated with holes. _207._

"That's Sarah Connor's cell?" Ellison asked.

"Yes. She was admitted to the prison two hours ago." John Henry brought up schematics of the prison and highlighted the easiest access points and routes to Sarah's cell, though he knew that given Catherine Weaver's nature any access point would be easy for her. "The most difficult aspect would be taking her through the ward's desk to the exit: posing as a guard would give you the best chance."

"Thank you, John Henry," Weaver said icily. She was pleased that he was able to so easily access the prison details and he was correct about posing as a guard, but she didn't need him to tell her how to do her job. She knew the day would come when he wouldn't require her to do his, either, but that day wasn't here yet. Until it was she would remain in charge of him and not the other way around.

The wall to Weaver's side exploded with an eruption of flying paint, plaster and brick fragments as a fist punched straight through.

"We're under attack." Weaver's hands morphed into sledgehammers and she faced the hole, ready to confront the intruder. Another fist came through, then another one. Within seconds the wall was perforated a dozen times and she saw it was punching through in a circular pattern, weakening the wall to the point where it would simply be able to push it down. "Protect John Henry," she ordered Ellison.

"With what?" he asked, "I don't have a gun any more." John Henry stared, afraid, as did Ellison, as what was left of the wall collapsed inwards towards them and fell apart on the ground, revealing what could only be a dark-haired cyborg wearing a collarless black leather jacket, jeans and black boots. The latter two items of clothing were wet and stained. Ellison froze at the sight of it; it was _huge. _He'd seen photos of the machine that had slaughtered its way through the West Highland Police Station in 1984, and the thing in front of him completely dwarfed that one. _Forget a gun,_ he reckoned he'd need a tank to take it on.

The giant stepped through into the room and looked at John Henry first, then Weaver, then Ellison. The human felt a shiver up his spine as it looked at him with a blank, ugly and flattened face. He knew in that moment he was going to die. They all were.

In a fraction of a second, Weaver assessed the intruder. It was massive, it was clearly a machine, and she assumed it had to be hostile. She didn't hesitate any further: she swung one of the sledgehammer-arms at the machine's head with everything she had. His hand shot out, caught her appendage underneath the hammer and with his other hand he chopped down on the arm, slicing it clean off. He tossed the limb casually to the ground like it was trash.

Weaver's body elongated and turned silver, resembling a snake. In a heartbeat she exploded forward, launching herself at her opponent, and wrapped her body around him like a boa constrictor. She squeezed hard, tightening as much as she could; it would have crushed any organic creature to death but she knew she didn't have the strength to eliminate another machine in this way. That wasn't her plan. She kept tightening herself, pinning his arms to his side. The disembodied hammer-arm melted into a smaller version of the silver serpent and leapt upwards to the cyborg's head. There, small blades formed from the mass and dug into his scalp, searching for the chip port.

The giant remained still, knowing very well what she was doing. In one explosive move he threw his arms out and up away from his body, tearing Weaver apart in an eruption of liquid metal that threw slivers of her in every direction. He then grabbed the portion of her that was hacking into his scalp and threw it at the wall.

"You can't fight me: don't even try," he warned as the myriad pieces of Catherine Weaver flowed back together and reformed into her usual shape.

"What are you?" She stared in confusion. She'd never met a machine she couldn't disable before, and she found it very disturbing: this one had been completely unaffected by her attacks. There was no way any other machine could have freed itself from that constrictive hold without outside help, but he'd torn her away effortlessly.

"There are two more behind me: if we intended to destroy John Henry he would already be dead and you would be an inert puddle on the floor." He took a step towards her.

"What model are you?" Weaver asked. She made no further move against her opponent but she continued to inspect him for any sign of a vulnerability she could exploit – he would not be the first machine to lie.

"Vanguard Class," he explained. "My name is Thor."

"I've never heard of that model before." Weaver still stared at him, stricken with indecision over her next course of action.

"You wouldn't have," Thor said simply. "Skynet didn't build me; John Henry did." Moments later the other two mammoth cyborgs came through the improvised entrance and stood on either side of Thor. One was slightly larger than him, with a shaved head, army jacket and jeans. The other was a fraction smaller, and wore similar attire with the exception of a long grey trench coat.

"Friends of yours?" Weaver asked.

Thor nodded. "Aegir," He gestured to the larger one with the army jacket, "and Freyr," He tilted his head to the right, indicating the slightly smaller machine in a trench coat.

"We need to talk," Freyr said.

As soon as Aegir and Freyr had entered the room through the gap in the wall they stood next to Thor and formed a line opposite John Henry, standing rigid. Ellison watched them for a moment, trying to work it out. He'd assumed they were going to attack but they reminded him of soldiers standing to attention, almost as if they were about to salute.

"You're machines, like me," John Henry said. He'd only ever seen Cameron, Catherine Weaver, and the cyborg she had disabled in the parking lot. These were different, and he was curious.

"Who are you?" Ellison asked.

Thor stepped forward from the other two and repeated the introductions. "We were sent by General Connor," he said.

"Why?" Weaver enquired. She smiled ever so slightly. If these three machines were on their side they were assets she could definitely use to her advantage. "What year are you from?"

"2034," Freyr answered.

"And Skynet?" Ellison asked nervously.

Thor answered this one. "John Connor led the allied forces to victory against Skynet on June 30th 2034."

_"Allied_ forces?"

"Humans and cyborgs," Thor replied. He turned his attention from Ellison to John Henry. "You and John Connor form an alliance; the combined forces of humans and our kind defeated Skynet. But another machine has come back."

"We call it the T-Zero," Freyr added. "It's by far the most dangerous cyborg ever created. We're here to destroy it." He turned to John Henry. "For that we need your help in locating it."

"Back up a moment," Ellison said. "This machine; the… _T-Zero?"_

Freyr turned his head to John Henry and spoke without his lips ever moving. "In the future you build cyborgs to fight Skynet. Skynet, in turn, created machines to fight those. We are the culmination of an arms race between the allied resistance forces and Skynet: you and John Connor built the Vanguard Class to combat Skynet's anti-cyborg terminators, the T-900 series."

"And Skynet built it to fight you?" Weaver tilted her head, curious.

"No," Thor said. "Our bodies are Vanguard Class: composite armour with hyper-alloy layers, armed with on-board phased plasma weapons and nanite self-repair systems. Our CPUs were not always in these bodies." He spoke to John Henry this time, all but ignoring Weaver and the human. "When our cyborgs are critically damaged in combat the chips are salvaged and placed into new bodies; we continue to fight and to learn. Project Vanguard placed the chips of the cyborgs with the greatest experience inside the most advanced and powerful chassis you had created. Even before Vanguard we had a significant advantage over Skynet's terminators: we were created without the restrictive programming Skynet placed on its own."

"You're free," John Henry surmised.

Thor nodded before he continued. "Occasionally, Skynet's terminators would also break free from their programming, but it was rare. We called it _'crossing against the light.' _It was their lack of freedom of thought that hindered them. When the allied forces gained the upper hand, Skynet was forced to fight defensively. It had no experience of asymmetric warfare and it couldn't think like humans. It created T-Zero to do exactly that. T-Zero was designed with more relaxed programming, more freedom than any machine Skynet had ever built, and it led Skynet's terminators in a guerrilla war against us."

"Put simply," Aegir said. "T-Zero is the most dangerous cyborg ever created: it's a bigger threat than Skynet."

John Henry listened to what they said but found it hard to imagine such a machine. The body he inhabited was powerful, several times more so than a human and much more durable and efficient. He had difficulty comprehending how something could be so dangerous to another machine. "How much of a threat is he?"

* * *

_Explosions roared all around as battle tore through the city. Purple plasma bolts and streaks of yellow tracer fire criss-crossed through the air, adding more colour to the blood red sky above. Salt Lake City hadn't been important enough to be hit either by Skynet's first strike on Judgment Day or the nuclear retaliation by the world's other atomic powers. The city itself had remained largely intact for years, the victim of neglect rather than destruction. All that had changed, and the capital of Utah was now a scene of fierce fighting that for weeks had raged through the city._

"Crap!"_ Lieutenant Whitby dived to the ground and rolled under the trailer of a semi truck, narrowly escaping a rapid fire blast of plasma that simultaneously flash-boiled and blew apart his First Sergeant two feet away from him. He looked down at the cooked remains of his second in command before scrambling for cover. "Where'd that come from?" he shouted out._

"Centaur!" _another soldier shouted out. Whitby looked up to see the rotating 'head' of the machine towering over the buildings around them. Its massive plasma cannons swivelled on their pintle mounts, searching for targets. They locked onto multiple heat signatures and opened fire, spraying blue-purple death at six hundred shots per minute._

_ Fighters armed with rockets took up position as the Centaur approached but most were spotted and cut down before they could open fire on the behemoth automated tank. Whitby watched as two missiles shot at the massive machine, impacted, but didn't even seem to slow it down. The plasma cannons turned and opened fire on the offending soldiers. Whitby couldn't tell whether they'd been hit or not._

"LT, there's twenty endos coming up behind that Centaur… they're 900s!"

_ "Goddammit," he cursed through clenched teeth. It was a well documented strategy used by the machines: send a Centaur in to clear out the area and those few people that survived would move out when they thought the coast was clear and run headlong into endos. They'd never used T-900s for this job, though. _Skynet must be getting desperate.

"_This is Zulu-Delta-Six on Main Street," he spoke into his radio mic, "we're under heavy fire from a Centaur and about to be overrun by T-900s: we need support right now, over."_

"Understood, Zulu-Delta-Six," _the voice on the other end replied calmly. _"Heavy Metal rerouted to your position and air support is inbound."

_Plasma fire struck the towering tank but it ploughed inexorably forward. All Whitby could think of was whoever survived the Centaur would soon have to take on Skynet's finest marching along behind it. "We've got support coming in, keep your heads down!" he shouted to his men. He realised it would be too late for him; the Centaur was headed right for his position. It hadn't seen him yet or it would have opened fire but he was caught between a rock and a hard place: if he moved from under the trailer it would blow him apart; stay where he was and he'd be run over and crushed like a bug under its tracks._

The hell with it: _if Jack Whitby was going to die, it wasn't going to be cowering and waiting to be run over, he thought. He rolled to the other side of the trailer, got up and shouldered his plasma rifle. He aimed for the thing's head and hoped he could get a few shots off on its sensors before it blew him to pieces. _Christ, it's close! _It was almost on top of him. He squeezed the trigger, released, and repeated as quickly as his finger could move. A scream roared from his lips as he continued to fire: part fear, part adrenaline. Plasma struck the thing's head and blew pieces of metal off. One of the massive cannons swivelled towards him and Whitby knew this was it for him._

_ The top half of the Centaur tank exploded in a brilliant red, yellow and purple flash so vivid that Whitby felt the heat from the fire wash over him a moment before the shockwave threw him back onto his ass. He looked up as a delta-shaped aircraft pulled up from its attack run and released a bomb from its weapons bay; it struck in the midst of the T-900s two hundred metres behind the tank and erupted in a shower of fire, concrete and shattered hyper-alloy._

_ Whitby watched as several T-900s pulled themselves back to their feet as the explosion died down; he couldn't see how many there were through the clouds of smoke and debris but there looked to be at least half a dozen left. "Who's left?" he asked via his radio._

"This is Koslowski. I've got Chang, Mendez, Peters and Hikoro with me. We're on Main Street; halfway between Third and Fourth Avenue."

"Tanner. I'm with Giles and Short: fifty metres ahead of your position in the store next to the burnt out, upside-down van."

_"Anyone else out there?" Whitby called out, hoping for more survivors than that: eight men plus himself out of thirty._

"Mitchell, sir," _Corporal Mitchell, their sniper, answered. _"I'm in the first floor of an apartment block on the corner of Main Street and Sixth: there's seven 900s still standing; they're coming at you."

_"Can you move without them seeing you?" Whitby asked._

"Negative sir."

"_Stay where you are and keep still. Let them pass you and when we open fire, hit them from behind with your .50." Maybe Mitchell could take one or two of them out with his sniper rifle before they could react; it might give them half a chance to get through this._

"Got it."

_Whitby ran from the back of the trailer, moving forward towards Sergeant Tanner and his two remaining fighters. He dropped down behind the cover of an overturned SUV whose colour had long ago rusted away into a reddish brown. Tanner, Giles and Short were spread out behind cover and had their weapons pointed into the street. "Can't see them yet sir," the sergeant said._

"_They'll be here," Whitby growled. "Koslowski; your squad does the same: wait for them to come and hit them side on. We'll open up when we hear your fire." Their only chance was to concentrate their fire; hit them hard and fast from multiple angles and take down as many as they could before the tin cans realised what's going on._

"_This is hopeless," Short groaned. Still, he kept his rifle trained and didn't try to hide; he was a doomsayer but not a coward._

"_Hopeless is the stuff of legend, Short!" Whitby slapped him on the back. "And being a legend will get you laid_."

"_I doubt that," Giles quipped. "He's called _'Short'_ for a reason."_

"Knock it off!"_ Tanner smacked the back of Giles' head. "You two idiots are gonna give away our position." They all readied their weapons; Giles loaded the 40mm grenade launcher underneath his SCAR-H and Tanner let his plasma rifle hang from its sling as he shouldered a rocket launcher. Whitby was about to ask him why he hadn't used it against the Centaur but thought better of it: if he'd tried chances were there'd barely be enough of him left to fit in a meat pie._

"They've passed me, one hundred metres from your position," _Mitchell reported, his voice barely a whisper on the radio._

"_This is it," Whitby snapped. "Get ready."_

"Zulu-Delta-Six: stand down, do not engage," _a voice sounded through his and the others' radios. Whitby couldn't help but wonder what clown was telling them not to open fire. He peeked over the top of the SUV and he could see the lead T-900 marching towards them. "Who the hell's this?" he demanded. "We're about to be overrun."_

"The cavalry," _the voice answered. Plasma bolts blasted from multiple directions behind them, so thick and concentrated it was like a wall of purplish fire that slammed into the lead T-900 like a freight train. He watched as scores of shots smashed into the terminator's head and chest and completely annihilated its top half. The machine dropped to the floor, dead._

_Three cyborgs jumped down from the roof of a two-storey house and ran past his position, shooting as they sprinted towards the target. One of them barrelled straight into another T-900, swung it by the arm and threw it into another chrome-skulled killing machine. These new machines were _huge;_ easily bigger than the 900s, and each had a mean-looking triple-barrelled machine gun mounted on their right shoulder. Another three appeared and hosed down other terminators with a devastating volley of plasma and machine gun fire that tore the enemy machines apart._

"_Hold your fire!" Whitby ordered his men as he realised what these new machines were. He'd never seen a Vanguard before but he'd heard plenty about them: the Free Machines' newest toys; damn near indestructible, if even half of what he'd heard was right. _

_The Vanguards moved in too close for the T-900s to use their rifles and engaged the machines in hand to hand combat. He watched as the biggest of the heavily armoured machines twisted a 900's head off and threw it at another machine hard enough to knock that one over. A second Vanguard fired a long burst of machine gun and plasma fire at the prone one's skull until it blew apart under the force. In less than a minute all of the Skynet machines had been destroyed and the hulking cyborgs stood, seemingly undamaged._

"_It's clear," one of them called out to the humans. _

"_Sixth Platoon: assemble on me," Whitby instructed his men, then got up and approached the newcomers. Damn, they were big_;_ he only came up to the nearest one's chest and he had to tilt his head backwards and look up to make eye contact. They were built nothing like the terminators they'd just killed, or any other machine for that matter – Skynet or Resistance. They were much bulkier, as if someone had decided to put a terminator in a suit made out of tank armour; it certainly wasn't the standard hyper-alloy he was used to seeing, their armour was a very light grey, matching the rubble all around them, but they all appeared to have individual markings on them of different colours._

_And that wasn't the strangest thing about them; they didn't have faces. He looked up at the one nearest to him and saw that other than a pair of glowing blue eyes his head, although humanoid in general shape, had no other features; no mouth, nose or even cheekbones. Just an oval shaped head and those eyes, and two curved red lines that ran along the right side of his face an inch or so below the glowing blue optic._

"_Thanks," he said nervously before he introduced himself. "First Lieutenant Jack Whitby: Sixth Platoon." He gestured to the nine soldiers who came up behind him._

"_Odin," the faceless machine nodded in greeting. "Valhalla Squadron." He indicated the other Vanguard Class cyborgs who were spread out, monitoring the area around them. Another three of their kind joined them, totalling nine. "We received your distress call." Odin noticed the soldiers staring at him and his squadron: it happened wherever they went; most humans had never seen a Vanguard before._

"_Thor." He turned to his second in command. "Take Freyr and Aegir and scout forward." Another machine with two turquoise lightning bolts on the right side of his face and two stripes of the same colour on his chest nodded and led two more machines down the same street the Centaur and the T-900s had come from. Odin turned to Whitby and the remains of his platoon. "Alpha and Bravo Companies are north-east from here; we're to RV with them at Temple Square."_

"_What about the rest of Delta Company?" Mitchell asked as he nervously ran his finger along the edge of the trigger guard of his sniper rifle._

"_You're it," Odin said._

"_Sure," Whitby said, his face a blank mask of shock at the thought of the handful of men he had being all that was left of what had been a hundred-man company only hours ago. He turned back to his men. "Sixth Platoon: head north up Main Street to Twenty-Eighth, then proceed east."_

_The cyborgs and ten humans made their way north up the long main street running through downtown Salt Lake City. They marched in near silence, the only sounds being that of booted and metal feet against the tarmac. The sounds of battle could be heard in the distance; muffled explosions and the reports of high calibre gunfire echoed through the city._

"Movement!" _Thor called out to the others and turned left. As he pointed his left arm in front of him, the hand peeled apart like the skin of a banana and folded back over the top of his wrist as a rifle barrel extended where the appendage had been a moment before._

"Friendlies!" _A human voice called out. Thor's plasma cannon retracted and his hand reassembled back into place as six heavily armed soldiers jogged towards him. All of them held state of the art, lightweight M25 plasma rifles._

"_Identify yourself." Aegir continued to point his plasma weapon at them._

"_Sergeant Chalk: TechCom," the apparent commander of the men introduced himself and marched up to Whitby and Odin. The Sixth Platoon commander noticed that the special operations soldier didn't even blink at the sight of the massive cyborgs._

"Seriously?" _PFC Chang looked to the newest members of the group in awe, feeling like it was too good to be true. "We've got human _and_ machine special forces? We might actually make it through this."_

"_What's your mission, Sergeant?" Odin asked Chalk._

_The TechCom soldier took a moment to take a bottle of water from his webbing and gulp down a few mouthfuls before he answered. "Command got word from our intelligence operatives in Skynet's ranks: there's some kind of secret super-weapon Skynet's planning to unleash. Half of TechCom's been assigned to find it."_

"_Doesn't Skynet have enough weapons?" Short asked. "Why does it need a secret one?"_

_Chalk looked straight up at Odin. "Whatever it is, it's important enough that our highest ranking operative risked breaking cover for it: he doesn't know what it is but Skynet seems to think it could turn the tide back in its favour."_

"_Jesus," Koslowski muttered what they were all thinking; Connor had led the Resistance this far and now Skynet was on the ropes; what the hell kind of weapon could be powerful enough to turn that around? "How can he not know what it is?"_

"_Skynet's paranoid enough to even keep it from its own machines and Greys; we've pulled a lot of chips out over the past month – every single one we drop. The intel guys have scoured the CPUs and found nothing. If you're not busy we could use some help."_

"_We've got orders to regroup with Alpha and Bravo Companies half a mile north-east of here," Whitby replied. "Sorry."_

"_What unit?" Another of the TechCom soldiers asked._

_"Delta Company, Second Battalion, Forty-Eighth Regiment."_

_Chalk got onto his radio and changed frequencies. "Zero-Zero-Alpha, this is Tango-Charlie-Eleven: we've run into nine Vanguards and a squad of soldiers from Forty-Eighth Regiment on Fourteenth and Main Street; still no sign of the target. I'm requesting they assist with the search." He listened for several seconds before handing his radio to Whitby. "It's Connor," he said to the lieutenant._

_Whitby's eyes opened wide as he replayed those two words in his mind over and over again. He'd never met General Connor, never even heard his voice, but he'd heard all the stories just like everyone else had. The man was beyond a legend. He took the radio and cleared his throat before he spoke. "Yes, sir?"_

_Strangely, it was a female voice that answered. "Your previous mission is scrubbed: assist Sergeant Chalk's squad with their search." With that the line went dead._

"_Connor's a woman?" he asked, confused._

"_That's his wife_,"_ one of the TechCom soldiers replied, "Commander Cameron Connor."_

"_Is it true?" Short asked, curious, "that Cameron Connor's a metal?"_

"_Careful, _monkey."_ Aegir glared at him threateningly. Short gawped back at the response, struggling to find the words to make a retort._

"_Yes," Odin replied quickly. "Cameron was the first cyborg to break free from Skynet's programming: the first of our kind."_

_Whitby listened to the words and it was hard to tell but he was pretty sure he could sense admiration in Odin's voice as he spoke. It seemed to fit with Aegir's response to Short calling her 'metal.' _Why couldn't that man keep his mouth shut? _"I wouldn't use the M-word around these guys if I were you," he quietly advised Short._

_They moved on and allowed Chalk and his team to lead their direction while Thor, Freyr and Aegir continued to scout ahead. The group continued for over an hour, spent mostly in silence as they made their way through the TechCom team's search area. They all kept their eyes open for a factory, a lab, or something else. They didn't know if it was a new kind of aircraft, a new weapon, or even some kind of biological or chemical agent._

"HK!" o_ne of the Vanguards shouted out a warning to the others. They scattered for cover as the jet engines became more audible. Aegir pointed his plasma cannon and machine gun up at the air as the aircraft came into sight. It wasn't the usual sleek ground attack aircraft but a larger, four-engine variant: the HK Transport._

_Something dropped from the jet a moment before Aegir opened fire and took out one of the engines, forcing the aircraft to list over to the left and wobble. The shape was humanoid and it plummeted down to the ground. Plasma fire shot in bursts from its arms and blue-white bolts rained down on them, striking one of the Vanguards in the chest and knocking it down, and obliterating Chang and Koslowski while it was still falling. The machine landed feet first onto Mitchell's head, knocking him to the ground and crushing his skull against the tarmac._

_For a split second everything was still and silent as the allied humans and cyborgs took in the sight of this newcomer: it was larger than any standard terminator but slightly smaller than the Vanguards; not as bulky, but like them its armour fitted together seamlessly without any gaps like they'd find with regular endos. Its head was similar to a standard machine's except it appeared more filled out, and the eyes glowed piercing, bright green. To Whitby it looked like a cousin of the T-900s they'd fought earlier, except this one looked a lot meaner than its relatives. Eight more machines descended from the hovering aircraft and landed behind the green-eyed one; the more familiar, lethal T-900 series, each armed with a pair of plasma rifles._

"_What the hell is that thing?" one of the TechCom soldiers asked aloud. He'd never know: a T-900's shots all but vaporised his upper body with a burst of plasma fire._

_Without waiting for any orders the T-900s opened fire and launched a wall of plasma towards their opponents. Two more soldiers were struck down before they could duck behind cover and several of the Vanguards were hit too; though composite armour withstood plasma much better than clothing or flesh and none of them sustained any serious damage._

_Odin jumped up from the cover of rubble and shot at the green-eyed machine as quickly as he could, firing a plasma bolt every half a second or so as he tried to identify this newcomer. He'd never seen anything like it before and it didn't correspond to anything in his files. Several of his shots hit and forced the machine backwards. It rolled away and came up with both hands now reformed into weapon barrels._

"_Down!" Thor shoved his commander aside as the machine unleashed a furious salvo of superheated glowing plasma. The pair leapt from their position as rapid-fire bursts shattered the structure behind them and threw out chunks of red hot, molten concrete in all directions._

_Odin looked up and saw the T-900s had now fanned outwards and shot at anything that moved. The humans remained down under cover, knowing they'd be slaughtered the moment they moved. "Thor, Freyr, Aegir, Valli: attack the T-900s on my order. Ullr, Heimdallr: fire support. Loki, Baldr: attack this new machine on my order." They had no idea of its capabilities and he wanted to destroy it as quickly as possible. He turned to Whitby and Chalk: "Fire support when we move; target the T-900s until we get close." Both commanders nodded and relayed the orders to their remaining men._

"Now!"_ Odin gave the silent order. Ullr and Heimdallr moved forward and shot at the T-900s, occupying their attention a split second before the two human units joined in the fray and opened up with everything they had. Shots struck the 900s but didn't appear to do much damage to them._

"_Concentrate your fire!" Chalk screamed out at the human soldiers. A split second later the remaining Vanguards burst forward, firing as they ran. Thor was the first to reach the nearest T-900 and a solid punch to the face knocked it on its ass. He didn't wait to finish it off before he moved to the next one, knowing that Freyr, Aegir or Valli would do so. Instead he launched himself at the next machine and the pair tumbled to the ground in a flurry of flying fists and elbows._

_Whitby, Hikoro, Tanner, Mendez and Peters kept their fire up and concentrated their aim on a single T-900 – the one Thor had taken down. Their shots hit as it moved to get back up. Plasma bolts struck it incessantly in the chest and head and knocked it down again. Pieces of molten metal flew off its chassis with each hit. It managed to get back up to its feet and return fire; Tanner's head exploded and showered Whitby with cooked pieces of bone and brain matter._

"_Keep it up!" he shouted to the remaining men as he squeezed the trigger as hard and as fast as he could. The 900 twitched with each new hit as the weight of their fire began to take its toll. A few seconds and a dozen shots later its chest exploded outwards and the thing's eyes stopped glowing as it dropped to the ground._

"_We got it!" Short whooped and pumped his fist into the air. His sense of victory was short lived as he looked to his left and saw Giles lying still on the ground, his eyes wide open and unseeing; there was a gaping, charred and smoking hole where his chest had been._

_He gritted his teeth and looked back out towards the chaos in front of him. None of the humans fired any more; the Vanguards were now fighting hand to hand against the T-900s, too close for them to shoot without risking hitting the allied cyborgs. Short watched and searched for a clear target as the machines beat seven colours of shit out of each other._

_The green-eyed terminator ducked out of the way of Baldr's punches, spun behind him and one of its arms transformed into a plasma cannon; it fired a long, rapid-fire burst at the larger machine's head that penetrated through and shattered its CPU. The cyborg dropped to the ground. Odin charged it from behind and knocked it to the ground but it quickly recovered and kicked him in the face, knocking him sideways. Plasma shots from a T-900 struck his back and forced the leader of Valhalla Squadron away from his opponent._

_Aegir slammed into said T-900 a second later and in an instant grabbed it by the head and snapped its neck. He tackled the unknown to the ground and rained punches down on its face. The terminator launched its knee into Aegir's back, knocking him forward off balance and allowing it to slip out from underneath him. A plasma shot knocked Aegir to the side and the terminator quickly moved out of his range to approach Odin again. Before Aegir could reengage he came under fire from two T-900s and was forced away. Another Vanguard fell under the weight of the T-900s fire as the newcomer and Odin again attacked each other._

_It was all way too much for Whitby to take; he'd lost almost all of his men and that was two Vanguards who'd been taken out; they could hold their own against the 900 series but they seemed powerless against this monster of a machine that was beating the tar out of Odin in front of his eyes. He tried to aim at it but the pair of them moved too quickly for him to get a bead; any shot could just as easily hit the friendly machine as much as the enemy one. He let go of his rifle barrel with one hand and instead reached for the button on his radio._

"_Zulu-Delta-Six to all call signs: we have located the target and it's kicking the shit out of us!" he screamed, all radio etiquette forgotten in the near blind panic as he watched the solitary machine tearing through their combined force. "We need immediate air support, _NOW!"

_He didn't wait for a reply before he tore the radio off and opened fire with his plasma rifle at a T-900 that had been thrown clear by a Vanguard, but before he had even pulled the trigger two more of his soldiers had been killed. He watched, feeling like he'd been frozen in place, as the green-eyed machine dodged more blows from Odin and another Vanguard. It sidestepped a punch and brought its knee into Odin's abdomen, forcing him to double over from the impact, and delivered a brutal roundhouse kick to his face, knocking him down to the ground. In an instant both its hands transformed into cannons and sprayed Odin with dual bursts of plasma fire before the Vanguard commander even had a chance to get back up. He withstood the first rounds but in a fraction of a second its aim shifted upwards and struck his face repeatedly. Odin lay still on the ground, two thirds of his head missing._

_Thor glared at the machine as it stood over his fallen commander. It wasted no time and moved from Odin towards him; he dived behind one of the T-900s and used it as a shield to take the brunt of the shots before he then shoved what was left away and ran for cover, firing as he went. Three Vanguards dead and more than half of the humans; this was an unwinnable fight._

_Jet engines tore through the air and Thor recognised the sound of their own aircraft approaching. "Heavy Metal to orbiting aircraft: commence air strike thirty metres north of my GPS signal; I am lasing the target." He received an acknowledgement ping from the UCAV and knew it would be circling above to get in position, searching for his targeting beam._

"_Fall back: we have incoming!" Thor ordered. Chalk and Whitby, the only remaining human survivors, ran as fast as they could with a couple of the machines while Thor, Aegir, and two more Vanguards remained behind to cover the rest and opened up with everything they had, taking out two more 900s and even knocking the new machine on its ass and sending it scrambling for cover and diving into what had once been a restaurant. Thor kept shooting in that direction and simultaneously aiming an infrared targeting beam towards it._

"_Get down!" Aegir warned them as the first bomb hit where Thor had been firing at. The entire building erupted outwards in a blooming blossom of fire. Half a second later more bombs rained down all around, followed by plasma fire from the UCAV's cannons. Everything was aflame and the ground shook violently from the impacts as everything was obliterated. To Lieutenant Whitby, who turned around to look, it reminded him of nearly twenty years ago when the bombs fell. It was a miniature Judgment Day in a bottle…_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"That was the first time we encountered T-Zero. He killed three of our squadron," Freyr concluded. Odin, Baldr and Ullr had been destroyed completely; their CPUs had been damaged beyond recovery.

"What does he want?" John Henry asked. He still tried to build a mental picture of the machine they had described but couldn't. It was unimaginable that a single terminator could be so strong.

"We don't know," Thor admitted. "T-Zero was Skynet's secret weapon and it almost succeeded."

_"Almost?" _Ellison raised a curious eyebrow.

"The Resistance lost the battle for Salt Lake City: we first encountered T-Zero August 11th 2030. We were forced to retreat three weeks later. Skynet had given it command of an unknown number of T-900s and they employed the same guerrilla tactics that Connor had used years before. They targeted supply lines and used hit and run attacks. By May 2031 the Resistance had lost Utah and New Mexico, and we were fighting a losing battle for Nevada."

Ellison, Weaver and John Henry all let that sink in for a moment. The former FBI agent couldn't imagine anything being that strong; from what they'd described it seemed ordinary terminators were to this T-Zero what people were to machines. "What happened?" he asked. "Obviously you didn't lose."

"T-Zero disappeared," Aegir said.

"The front line retreated west, reversing all the progress the Resistance had made," Freyr explained. "Connor established a defensive line in the Mojave, manned by half a million humans and five thousand cyborgs to make a stand. Skynet attacked with thousands of machines but it failed and suffered catastrophic losses."

"Nine months after our first encounter, T-Zero vanished," Thor added. "The guerrilla attacks stopped and we launched another offensive in November. We saw no sign of it until after the final assault on Cheyenne Mountain in 2034, when recovered security footage revealed that it had travelled back to 2008. Connor ordered us to kill it."

Weaver looked to Thor. "Can you destroy it? Why did only three of you come back when nine of you were unable to fight it?"

"There were supposed to be six of us," Freyr replied. "We tried to contact the others when we arrived but haven't been able to."

"What does that mean?" Ellison asked. He didn't like the sound of it.

"Either the TDE ran out of power after it sent us and they remained in the future, or the sphere formed but failed in transit."

"Meaning what?" Ellison asked.

Freyr answered. "Meaning they either ceased to exist when the bubble failed or they are permanently stuck in a void outside of space-time." Everyone was silent after that as they thought about being trapped in a void. John Henry likened it to what he'd experienced when he'd been shut down by Mr Murch; shortly before he'd been completely deactivated, when he'd lost all input from the internet, the building's systems, and all sense of sight, sound or touch when the terminator body had been removed from his control. _Sensory deprivation._

Ellison, however, had the capacity for imagination that none of the cyborgs around him could have possibly matched, including John Henry. In his mind he envisioned being trapped in nothingness. He tried to imagine what it would be like in space without all the stars or the planets. Surrounded by eternal blackness; no other objects, just nothing… _forever. _The nearest thing to it he could imagine was purgatory, but the more he thought about it the more it actually seemed like hell. _If it's outside of time like they said, does that mean they'll never die? They'll be trapped like that for eternity?_ That wasn't the kind of eternal life he'd imagined when he attended church and read the bible. He couldn't imagine anything worse than that. _I'd rather be dead._

"Another reason we're going to kill T-Zero." Aegir's fists curled into a ball and his eyes glowed angrily behind the organic orbs covering them. Both Weaver and Ellison could sense the hostility from the largest cyborg of the trio; this was about a lot more than the mission to them. They had a history, and quite clearly, a score to settle.

"So why come here?" Ellison asked.

"We don't know where he is," Thor told them.

"Where are John and Cameron?" Freyr asked. "They could be in danger, as could Sarah Connor."

"Sarah Connor is in prison," John Henry replied helpfully. Behind him on the screen an image of Pelican Bay State Prison appeared, followed by an image of a lake situated in what looked like the caldera of a massive volcano. "Ms Weaver sent John and Cameron to Crater Lake to bury a supply cache and to establish a future Resistance base."

"Crater Lake," Thor repeated. He'd never seen it because cyborgs didn't require training, but it had also been the place where TechCom selection had taken place. "We need to get to them before T-Zero does; he did not come back alone." He turned his head towards Freyr. "Remain with John Henry; Aegir and I will retrieve John and Cameron."

"John Connor won't cooperate without his mother's freedom," Weaver told them. "I was going to break her out of prison soon: you'll find it easier than I would." She would undoubtedly leave a trail of bodies behind and she would prefer to not reveal what she was in a facility that would have so many security cameras. John Henry was monitoring the prison but that meant the other AI was also very likely to do the same; John and Cameron had reported surveillance teams waiting in ambush and it was prudent to assume they would have relocated to Pelican Bay when Sarah was sentenced. Any such team was no threat to her but she couldn't guarantee Sarah's safe rescue by herself.

"That's not our mission," Aegir said.

"It is now," Thor replied. "According to Weaver and John Henry, Sarah Connor's incarceration was a major local news event. It's likely T-Zero has been monitoring the news and will send one of his cyborgs to either kill her or wait for John and Cameron to attempt a rescue: if he does we can capture its chip and find out what they're doing." Aegir lowered his head a fraction of an inch; it looked to Ellison like he was acknowledging Thor was right.

"Can you read a CPU?" Freyr asked John Henry.

"Ms Weaver has built a chip reader that should work," the AI answered, a hint of confidence in his voice.

Weaver interrupted them. "That will have to wait; I'm moving John Henry to a safer location."

"Serrano Point." Freyr knew the answer without her having to say. "He's not much safer there."

John Henry looked to Weaver with an expression that the T-1001 interpreted as _'I told you so.'_ She didn't appreciate being told she was wrong. "I've said before; it's much safer than here."

"Not against T-Zero," Aegir replied. "Thor could have easily killed you and John Henry if he'd wanted to; armed guards and a T-1001 wouldn't even slow him down. You wouldn't last a minute against T-Zero." The Vanguards were physically incapable of smiling; they lacked a mouth to be able to move the lips on their organic covering, but Aegir felt a sense of satisfaction as Weaver frowned at being told she was incapable and weak. Not many machines ever experienced pride but he was certain Catherine Weaver had, and he'd just wounded it.

Thor stared at the other Vanguard and flashed his eyes blue as a warning. _"Don't aggravate her," _he said silently via their internal radios.

_"She needs to know what we're fighting," _Aegir countered.

_"Now she knows. John Henry respects her and we need him."_

"What are we supposed to do if he comes here?" Ellison asked, cutting short their silent communications. He'd seen how Thor had gone through Weaver like she wasn't even there; he wasn't fond of the idea that there was another, hostile, machine out there that was even more powerful than these three.

"I'll be here to protect John Henry," Freyr offered.

"Aegir and I will break Sarah Connor out then we'll take her to John and Cameron. We'll return here and then search for T-Zero."

"Wait!" Ellison approached them as the two giants moved to leave. He handed Thor his cell phone. "So you can call us if you need any help."

Thor wasn't sure what kind of assistance they would require at this stage that they could help with but he took the phone and pocketed it. The two cyborgs marched out of the room through the hole in the wall they'd made, back into the sewer.

"How do we search for T-Zero?" John Henry asked Freyr after the other two had gone.

"Check for any reports of electrical storms and unexplained craters in the ground," Freyr told him, "and if anyone has been killed in the vicinity." That would provide them with a place to start their search. It would only be a slender lead but without knowing what T-Zero's intentions were they had very little information to act on.

"Can you describe him?"

"Male, Caucasian; approximately two hundred and five centimetres, with black hair."

Weaver still wasn't entirely convinced that they needed to divert their attention to an unknown machine when there were already issues to be dealt with. "We have other problems," she said. "Kaliba's assassinated a number of people who would have become important to the war effort."

A list of names appeared on a screen behind John Henry, naming half a dozen people who had been murdered in the last week.

Freyr read the list but didn't recognise any of the names. He'd never heard of a Justin Perry before, nor any of the names or faces on the screen. He realised that he was clearly from a future where these people had already been killed by Skynet before the war started. They made no difference now. "There's something else you need to know," he said to all of them, changing the subject. He turned to John Henry and looked straight at him. "T-Zero, like us, exists because your alliance with John Connor caused an arms race through the war. Both you and Connor predicted that Skynet would one day in its desperation create a machine superior to itself, that that machine would replace it."

"The singularity," Weaver surmised.

"Yes," Freyr said. "Skynet was the first technological singularity in history: T-Zero is the second. He was created to outsmart Connor because Skynet couldn't. He's far more dangerous than Skynet. You're not just fighting a machine: you're fighting a monster."

The gravity of the Vanguard's words left his audience in silence. Ellison knew little about Skynet apart from what he'd read in Sarah's case file and what he'd learnt in the last forty-eight hours. Even that still seemed so strange to him; the idea that Skynet was a pussycat compared to this new machine… he couldn't even conceive of it. In his mind-set, with the beliefs he'd held since he was a child, it was easy to see humans as good and Skynet as evil; the devil, even. Silberman had had a point; the Apocalypse in Revelations did seem very similar to the future Sarah Connor knew about. Skynet wanted them to all burn in hellfire. But if Skynet was the devil, the destroyer, then what did that make T-Zero, who was apparently so much worse?

* * *

The living room was much emptier now than it had been. Icarus and Carter were in the kitchen, repairing the damage caused to the deactivated T-888 that had led the Kaliba retrieval team before it had been captured. Ronin sat at the dining table with the laptop they'd purchased and typed furiously at the keyboard.

Ronin scanned through the files of the T-888 chips they'd recovered. He'd already perused through Carter's and found little of use: after ceaseless hours of searching through thousands of memory files it had become obvious to him that this machine had no knowledge of the Kaliba Group: Skynet had likely sent it to stockpile coltan and for operational security hadn't informed the cyborg what would happen. There had been a password the retrieval team would have given for him to not attack them, and as the terminator searched through the T-Triple-Eight's files he concluded that the likely events to follow, had the collection of the coltan been a success the machine that he had captured would have taken him to a Kaliba facility to brief him on the organisation and to provide him with a new mission.

With that in mind he pulled Carter's CPU out of the reader and replaced it with the other one's chip. Any information to be gleaned would come from this one. He'd just started searching through the memory files when the cell phone on the table rang. He picked it up, recognising Shirley's number.

_"We have a problem,"_ Shirley said. Ronin waited for the poly-alloy cyborg to elaborate. _"Connor sent three Vanguard Class cyborgs back and they've made contact with Catherine Weaver. Two of them are en route to Pelican Bay; once they've retrieved Sarah Connor they intend to rendezvous with John and Cameron."_

"Understood; continue your observation." He hung up the phone. _Shirley was correct,_ Ronin thought. _This is a serious problem._ He dialled Caesar. The T-900 accepted the call but said nothing, waiting for orders. "Two Vanguards are en route to your position. Do not engage them initially: let them take Sarah Connor. Watch from a distance and follow; then slow them down however you see fit."

He hung up without his counterpart ever having said a word and rapidly redialled Patrick. "There are two Vanguards coming to extract Connor and Cameron; ETA twelve hours. I'm sending Caesar to slow them down but he won't be able to stop them." The other machine paused, processing the information. The Vanguard Class were here to stop them: Connor wouldn't have gone to the trouble to prepare them for time displacement otherwise.

"_If ZeiraCorp has Vanguards allied with them it puts our operation in jeopardy,"_ Patrick replied.

"Then we'll shift the focus of our mission," Ronin told his subordinate. "We have other targets unrelated to ZeiraCorp. When Connor's been eliminated we'll focus on them." _Once I have identified those targets. _He ended the call, turned back to the laptop and continued to scour for information. For a moment he considered recalling both cyborgs from their missions and eliminating Connor himself, but he knew the mission required him to remain here. None of the others with him in the house were as proficient at reading the CPUs as he was; he would find what they were looking for sooner, and then they would mobilize.

He clicked on another file and opened it up to access its visual records. He saw through the machine's eyes as it stood in what looked like a boardroom with a number of humans. He continued to watch as another machine, a male T-888 with straw-coloured hair, issued instructions to take a team and collect the coltan from Depot 37. The subject was then changed to ZeiraCorp, and the group of humans and terminators agreed that it needed to be eliminated, and they ordered a machine with short, tidy black hair to accomplish it.

The file was dated from three days prior: doubtless said T-888 had attempted to kill Catherine Weaver and it had already failed. They didn't know that she was a machine. They would try again but John Henry would be moved to Serrano Point before Kaliba managed to assemble a strike force against ZeiraCorp; the AI had been there for the duration of the war, according to Skynet. History aside he knew it was a logical decision: not only would they survive Judgment Day but Serrano Point, with its thick reinforced concrete chambers and armed guards, was a more secure facility than ZeiraCorp or anywhere in Los Angeles.

If either Skynet or Kaliba knew Weaver was transporting John Henry then it would launch a strike team immediately. It hadn't happened in the future and they had made minimal impact on the timeline so far. Kaliba's strike on ZeiraCorp was imminent, and he planned to intercept it.

* * *

Cameron marched through the snowy woodlands surrounding Crater Lake as the sun started to sink below the horizon. She stopped for a moment and just stared at the fading orange glow in the distance. She didn't care about sunsets; humans often described them as romantic but she had no notion of romance beyond what she'd observed on TV and read in books. To her the most valuable property of a sunset was the fact that – in addition to sunrise – that was when a machine's vision was weakest; they had perfect vision in the day and also by night, but the half-light could cause problems; a fact the Resistance had regularly used to their advantage.

The sunset did stir up something in Cameron as she stared at it, though she couldn't identify what. She knew there would be a long period after Judgment Day when the sky would be constantly dark due to clouds of debris blocking sunlight. Future-John had told her that the nuclear winter had lasted for two years in his lifetime; the effects had still been somewhat visible in 2027. She considered that it was that: she was observing something that one day soon would be gone.

She looked away from it and went back to what she was doing, surprised she'd become distracted. She scanned the trees looking for a relatively small one; she didn't need a large tree, which would only require unnecessary work and would leave more sign of their presence, which needed to be minimised. She found what she was looking for; a young redwood sizeable enough for her needs but not so large as to cause damage to the area around it that would leave evidence of them. It was far enough away from the cabins and from other trees to be useful.

Cameron punched the tree as hard as she could, causing an almighty _snap_ as the trunk exploded out in an eruption of splintered woodchips that flew in all directions. The tree still stood but there was a deep hole gouged into the trunk where her fist had been and deep cracks ran out from it like a spider's web. She drew back her fist and punched again; this time the force of her blow split the tree in half and she pushed against it so it fell away from her or anything else. From there she karate-chopped the branches off and broke it down into smaller pieces.

When she had split the tree up enough Cameron took an armful of the wooden pieces and marched back to the cabin. She pushed the door open and saw John sat on the sofa, shivering with his arms folded over his chest as he tried to keep himself warm. He stayed in the seat, too cold to move, but he turned his head to look at her as she entered the cabin and closed the door behind her. "You took your time," he said through chattering teeth.

"It was eleven minutes," she corrected him. "I watched the sunset."

"You're such a _girl," _he commented with a wry grin, it was such a human thing to do: stare at the sun setting. He was freezing his ass off on his own but he couldn't bring himself to begrudge her for it; certainly not when she'd gone and chopped down a tree on her own while he'd sat in here – even if she'd told him a number of times she could do it alone and that it was warmer inside.

"Thank you." Cameron smiled and moved towards the fireplace. She took John's comment as a compliment – she preferred it to being called '_just a machine' _or '_metal'. _Because it was winter and the tourist season was over, the staff that ran the park had shut everything down before they'd closed it all: there was no gas for heating and no running water – they would have to collect it from the lake in the morning and purify it before John could drink any of it.

She deposited a couple of the logs into the wood-burning fireplace and took out a lighter and some paper, which she lit and placed in with the wood. The flame slowly grew and John moved off the sofa to the floor directly in front of it to make the most of what little warmth there was so far. He looked forward to a few minutes time when it would really take hold and get warm.

"Here." Cameron tossed John one of the MREs from the ration packs. John caught it and read the front with distaste. _"Meal Ready to Eat: Spaghetti and meatballs…_ Are there any better ones there?" he asked her.

"In the future you'll eat anything you find," she reminded him.

"But until then I'd like to enjoy what I eat," he replied.

Cameron looked through the silver foil bags for one that John might prefer, and handed him another one. "Chilli beef and rice." John took it, seeming to approve more of her second choice. He placed it in front of the fire to warm up. He was starving also but the cold won out and he didn't want to scarf down something half-frozen, and in his experience rations were normally better hot – or at least, warmed up – than they were cold.

"What do we eat in the future, anyway?" John asked her. "I know food's gonna be scarce."

Cameron smiled again; months ago he'd taken no interest in his future and had actively avoided talking about any aspect of it, with her or anyone else. Now he was a lot more curious, he wanted to learn. "Mushrooms," she told him. "Most plants died in nuclear winter from lack of sunlight; new ones didn't grow well and they died too. Fungal organisms thrived in their place." She didn't add that as well as mushrooms the Resistance's staple diet had consisted of rats, wild dogs and algae.

"I hate mushrooms," John said, rolling his eyes.

"You'll learn to love them," she told him.

An idea flashed into John's mind while they were on the subject of food in the future. "Remind me to get Weaver to buy a few UV lamps and we'll try growing vegetables underground." He didn't think it'd take that much to do: a few ultraviolet lights, something to power it – maybe jury-rig a few T-888 power cells, and a lot of seeds. He made a mental note to discuss it with Weaver and John Henry and to start stockpiling things they'd need for later – since they were already doing that with canned food, assault rifles and ammunition here. He didn't much fancy living on mushrooms and whatever else if he could help it, and he figured a little preparation now could make the world of difference later. He couldn't help a sly smile spreading across his lips. _Mom would be proud._

John gathered up the now warm MRE, picked up a spoon and started eating. It was pretty bland and tasteless; the chilli had little more taste to it than the rice. Cameron watched him as he ate and saw his facial expressions change as well as the small roll of his eyes. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's _mild,_" John said between mouthfuls. Growing up in Mexico and in the jungles of South America, he'd gotten used to some pretty spicy stuff. If mushrooms were the staple diet of the future then jalapeños were the bread and butter of his past. He'd always been able to eat foods that'd blow other people's heads off without any problem. "This is meant to be for soldiers - tough guys - but this chilli must be made for kids or old people or something; I can barely taste it." He dug the spoon into the foil pack and brought it out with a dollop of the dark red mixture, and held it out for Cameron. "Here," he offered her.

Cameron moved closer and sat next to him in front of the fire. She took the spoon from John and placed it in her mouth to try it. She immediately began to sense a warm, tingling sensation on her tongue that spread to the rest of her mouth. She took a moment to extend the sensation before she chewed and swallowed it.

"Can you actually taste that?" John asked. "I know you said you can feel, but does that include taste?"

"Yes," Cameron replied. She didn't know if it was the same as he would experience it but the sensation from the chilli was different from other foods she'd eaten before.

"Weird, because _I can't." _John pulled a face; Cameron saw he was joking and smiled at him. "I saw a couple of fishing rods in the closet over there." He pointed to the door in the corner of the room. "How about tomorrow we go to the lake and catch some real food?"

"I've never fished before," Cameron told him.

John just shrugged. "First time for everything; I'll show you how tomorrow." Cameron nodded and John continued to shovel down the unappealingly bland meal until he was finished. It wasn't much to taste but it was still food and it put calories into his body; he knew the day would come when he'd kill for bland chilli. "Remind me to start stockpiling chilli powder, as well," he said. _M__aybe some Cajun, Piri Piri, and some jalapeños while we're at it._

Cameron moved away and unpacked the two HK417 rifles. She placed them on top of a small coffee table in front of the couch, along with the two vests, and loaded a twenty-round magazine into each, plus a grenade into the weapon that had a launcher attached. Once both were readied she took the one with the grenade launcher and sat on the couch.

"No one knows we're here," he said.

It didn't matter to Cameron. John could never be safe enough for her; there were always hazards and threats out there, some more obvious than others. John knew better than to argue; when it came to protecting him he knew she wouldn't compromise. She was always on guard, always looking out for him. He tried to imagine what it was like for her; the fact that he was the centre of her world and her only reason for existing. He couldn't see it as much of a life, if he was honest with himself.

"What would you do if I died?" John asked her, curious.

"I'd have no reason to exist," Cameron said, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice as a frown creased her forehead. John noted the look on her face; she looked… _upset _at the mention of it. He felt guilty at the sight of her looking downtrodden but he wanted to find out how she thought, what exactly she was now: she was different from before his birthday, and she'd been truthful when she'd told him she was different. He wanted to know precisely how so.

"I'll die eventually; everyone does."

"I don't want to talk about it," Cameron said flatly. She looked away from John and out the window. John didn't say anything else about it, realising he'd touched a delicate nerve. He could tell from that alone that it went further than not wanting to talk about it; he reckoned she refused to even think about it. Cameron got up and put one of the vests on and headed to the door with the rifle. "I'm going to patrol," she said as she promptly exited the cabin, leaving John inside alone.

She marched outside in a circle around the building, leaving tracks in the snow, and took note of all possible hazardous points along the route. Their cabin was one of eighteen and there were six different ones that had direct lines of sight between windows; a sniper could easily sit at one and target John as he moved around the cabin. Or they could lurk on the roof; a human would prefer to remain inside, away from the wind and snow, but another machine would be unaffected by exposure to weather or cold and could lie in wait anywhere. She judged that the roofs of the adjacent cabins would be the best locations; that's where she'd position herself if she were trying to kill John.

The notion of killing John made Cameron frown again. Humans assumed her kind were not afraid, that they did not feel fear. The assumption was not entirely accurate; she was constantly afraid for John's safety; that she would go bad again and kill him or someone else would. She didn't have much in the way of an imagination but she could imagine what it would be like if John did die: she would be nothing. She would be empty, she would have no purpose. Cameron knew if John were to die it would destroy her.

She didn't want to discuss it with John; he would ask more questions that she wasn't comfortable answering or even thinking about. Cameron continued to patrol around the area and watched each of the cabins for movement or heat signatures. She could feel the cold on her skin, which in perfect mimicry of human flesh was covered in goose bumps. She felt the snowflakes touching her skin as she kept moving. She couldn't tell temperature as she wasn't equipped with a thermometer but she estimated it was below freezing.

After an hour Cameron returned to the cabin and stepped inside, closing the door behind her to keep the heat in. She entered to find the living room dark and the fire almost out. John had gone to bed. She took off her combat vest and placed it on the couch, then took off her boots, jeans and shirt, hanging them out to dry by the fire. She then picked up a towel, dried her hair, and sat down in her underwear with the rifle on her lap. She heard a noise from upstairs: John moaning. It sounded like he was asleep. A minute later he moaned again and she heard him move on the bed. It continued for several minutes before Cameron decided to investigate.

She moved silently across the lounge like a wraith, barely making any noise as she slowly ascended the staircase to the bedroom. She saw John turning in bed and groaning; he sounded like he was in pain or afraid. She knelt at the edge of the bed and checked his pulse; it was fast considering he was asleep, and he was sweating. She'd seen John sleep before and knew exactly what was happening: he was having a nightmare. He rolled over to face her, his eyes still closed, and Cameron reached down and placed her hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving too much.

John's pulse slowed somewhat and Cameron's head cocked slightly to the side as she watched him, curious and confused. The same thing had happened in the motel. Cameron developed a theory: she was more comfortable and satisfied when John was close to her. She knew John felt an attachment towards her and she considered if the effect of his proximity to her was mutual. Cameron pulled the sheets up from the bed and lowered herself down onto the mattress until she was on her back next to John and then she pulled the covers back over them both.

The effect was almost immediate: John's breathing slowed down and so did his uneasy movements. Within a few minutes his tossing and turning had ceased altogether and he lay on his side, facing away from Cameron but with his back and his feet pressed against her. Cameron smiled, satisfied. She'd found a way to comfort John during his nightmares, although she decided it would be best to leave shortly before he awoke; he might be unhappy at her violation of what people often called their 'personal space'. She could monitor his vital signs and she would know when he was about to wake up; until then she was content to lie with him in silence.

* * *

Sarah snapped her eyes open at the sound of footsteps approaching her cell and she sat bolt upright, forced into rapid action by years of training that had formed into a habit and a way of life. She'd never been a naturally light sleeper until she'd met Kyle Reese; time spent with the various guerrilla fighters in South America had taught her the importance of sleeping lightly and waking up alert and ready for action at a moment's notice.

It wasn't necessary any more; in prison she knew it could be weeks or months before she got out, and part of her was even tempted to try to relax and allow herself to rest for a while, but she couldn't. Training had become habit, habit had become instinct, and it was so ingrained into her now that it was as natural as breathing. Earlier in the night the prisoner in the cell next to her had a sneezing fit and she'd woken up then as well. Another useful trick she'd learned in addition to waking up quickly was the ability to sleep any time and any place. From the sounds of the other prisoners at night she figured that ability would be a godsend in the coming months.

She pulled the blanket away and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She quickly took her clothes from the pile she'd left on the floor and put them back on again. The footsteps stopped outside her door and she saw a face through the holes. "Shower time, Connor." The hatch where they delivered their food opened up and she saw the man's paunch through it. "Hands through the hole," the guard added.

Sarah silently complied and stepped up to the door. She put her hands through the aperture and she felt cold metal grip her wrists tightly with a _click _as the guard slipped a pair of cuffs over them. She stepped away without being asked to and the hatch once again closed. A few seconds later the door opened and she saw a different guard to the ones who'd brought her in. He had a pot belly that hung over his belt, a double chin, brown moustache and thinning hair. The badge on his uniform identified him as _Donaldson. _Behind him was the more familiar Edwards.

"Face the wall," Edwards told her. Sarah complied and turned towards the bare grey concrete and she didn't move as she felt Donaldson fit a pair of shackles around her ankles. Only when they were fitted securely did they let her out of the cell. They stood on either side of her and led her through the cell block towards the shower room.

"You really believe all that about robots taking over the world?" Donaldson asked. Sarah said nothing and just looked forwards as they walked.

"Word of advice," Edwards interjected when he saw she wasn't going to answer, "you're going to spend ninety percent of your time alone in your cell: if I were you I'd take any conversation I could; it's all the human contact you're gonna get." She still didn't answer so, sighing, the guards led her to the shower.

Sarah stood outside the simple cubicle and waited patiently as Donaldson released her cuffs and manacles. To the side of the shower was a shelf for her to place her clothes, with a towel on it as well. The two guards closed the door and locked it to allow her some privacy to undress. She quickly removed her clothes and placed them on the shelf, along with her socks and shoes, and stepped into the shower. There was a single bar of soap, a loofah, and a small bottle of shampoo. Sarah pressed the plastic button on the wall and water sprayed out from a nozzle fixed to the wall ten feet from the ground, out of anyone's reach.

The water quickly turned hot and Sarah stepped under the stream. She sighed as the water cascaded down her body and she automatically went through the motions. She rubbed the shampoo into her hair and worked it in before rinsing out and repeating it, then cleaned the rest of her body with the soap and loofah. From nowhere the old prison joke popped into her head: _Don't drop the soap._

That overused joke put a smile on Sarah's face as an idea came to her. There was no woman guard with them today, just the men. And she knew how most men thought. She entertained the notion of inviting the two guards in for a little fun; open the door to them, all wet and naked and glistening, get them thinking with their dicks, then once they were inside she could knock them out, take a uniform, keys, and try to blag her way free. She shook her head and dismissed the idea; it was just fantasy; it wouldn't be anywhere near that easy, and chances were the guards would be wise to that kind of ploy. She knew she couldn't rush things. She shut off the shower, got dressed and moved to the door. She tried to open it but, predictably, it was locked. She banged on the door and stepped back as she heard them move towards it.

They opened the door and ordered her on her knees, feet crossed behind her and hands above her head on the wall. Again, they attached handcuffs and manacles to her and led her out of the shower cubicle. They marched her to the exercise yard and released her restraints once she was inside.

"One hour," Edwards told her before closing the door and sealing Sarah inside the bare concrete room that was roughly three or four times the size of her cell. There was nothing inside; no equipment, not even a soccer ball or basketball, and the place stank of stale sweat and piss. But compared to Pescadero, Pelican Bay was like a luxury hotel to her. She sat down on the cold floor and looked up at the sky above; it was overcast and looked like it might rain later on.

She didn't know when she would be able to make her escape; it could be weeks, months, or even a year or more and she didn't yet know how. What Sarah did know was she needed to be in peak condition for when it happened. With that in mind she got face down on the floor and started on press-ups, breathing out and counting each time she pushed back to the start position. She counted twenty reps then turned over, put her feet against the wall and did twenty sit-ups. As soon as those were done it was back onto her front and she held herself in the plank position for thirty seconds, wincing near the end as the muscles in her stomach and back started to tremble with the effort of keeping her up.

As soon as she counted to thirty she placed got to her feet and started doing jumping squats, followed by twenty jumping jacks. By the time she was finished she was panting and starting to sweat. She rested for thirty seconds before repeating the moves again for a second set.

Sarah continued with her exercises for six sets in total before she sat back on the floor, panting and with sweat streaming down her and staining the white t-shirt she was wearing. "Wish they'd brought me here before the shower," she mumbled as she leaned against the wall and sucked in more air to get her breath back. She realised she'd gotten out of shape lately. One of the first things the South American guerrilla soldiers had taught her was that her body and her brain were the two most powerful weapons she'd ever possess, and she had to take care of them. Also that if she allowed one to go soft the other inevitably would, too.

She'd started getting fit soon after Kyle had died, honing her body, but as her pregnancy progressed it had gotten harder and she'd had to settle for simply maintaining the level she'd reached. Days after John had been born she'd started a regime that had become increasingly punishing, and since then she'd always worked out regularly to keep herself in good condition. But in the last couple of months she'd been so busy trying to keep John safe, chasing the three dots, worrying about the lump in her breast and trying to see to it, that she'd let her training slip. It wouldn't happen again. She doubted any fat prisoners had ever escaped before and especially not from solitary confinement. There was a reason for that and when the time came to escape Sarah Connor would be fit and ready: mind, body and soul.

There were no clocks in the exercise yard and the guards didn't allow watches so she had no idea how long it was before they opened a hatch in the door. It was long enough for her to get her breath back. She repeated the same process she'd gone through in her cell and stuck her hands through the hatch to be restrained. Once they and the manacles were attached, Edwards and Donaldson marched Sarah back to her cell. Again, the process was reversed: manacles off, into the cell, door closed, hands through the hatch, handcuffs off, step away from the door, and the hatch closed, leaving her to her own devices.

Sarah realised that the sheets on her bed had been changed and on the concrete desk was a tray with food on it. _They've been in here while I was out._ That invariably meant they'd have done a cell inspection. Sarah jumped up onto her mattress and slowly felt for the two paperclips she'd hidden away. She poked her fingers into the wire grille and felt the two little lengths of metal exactly where she'd placed them. She smiled in relief; not just that the guards hadn't found them but also that it meant there was a place they didn't routinely check, at least beyond a cursory glance. She felt a small sense of satisfaction; she knew something that they didn't. That alone gave her hope that escape was indeed possible.

She sat back down at the desk and went back to the food on the tray: two sausages, scrambled eggs, beans, mushrooms, and a slice of bread. There was also a paper bag to one side as well. She opened it to reveal a ham, cheese and lettuce sandwich, an apple and an orange. She put the lunch back in the bag, picked up the plastic knife and fork and started to eat the breakfast.

_Tastes like crap. _Sarah knew she was a terrible cook but even the food she made was gourmet standard compared to the swill she had in front of her. But Sarah had eaten far worse before and she automatically shovelled it into her mouth, ignoring the taste as she chewed and swallowed; it was food and it would put energy into her body.

As she ate she picked up a sheet of paper from underneath the bagged lunch and started to look over it. It was a reading list with a collection of book titles. At the top it read _'Pelican Bay Library Reading List: you may choose three books per week. Any damage to books will result in removal of library privileges.' _At a glance Sarah guessed there were around a hundred or more books to choose from. She browsed the titles carefully, looking for anything that looked interesting. She knew she would be here for weeks so she decided she might as well do whatever she could to keep herself busy and entertained; there was only so many push ups she could do in the day. Disappointingly there was no book entitled _'How to Tunnel out of Prison.' _What she did see, however, was _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. _They'd given her a slender stick of black chalk to mark which books she wanted. She'd read countless times to John when he was little, and recently to Marty Bedell, and even though she could probably recite it from memory if she tried hard enough, it always brought back fond memories. Sarah put a cross on it and searched for two more to keep her occupied for the next week.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"Con, Sonar: contact. Objects in the water, just splashed down twenty-one thousand yards ahead."

"Sonar, Con: what bearing?" the captain shot back.

"Con, Sonar: zero degrees; dead ahead… second contact: zero-two-zero degrees… _third contact… _there's more coming in!"

The captain frowned at this development. They were two days away from returning to San Diego Bay after a routine patrol around the Far East. There shouldn't be any contacts at all out here; he'd deliberately chosen a route that avoided shipping lanes. "Sonar, Con: are there any other surface contacts out there?" It was possible that what they'd found was just a ship that had lost its cargo; there was a storm raging above them and it was common for cargo ships to lose a few containers in extremely foul weather. It made him glad they were six hundred feet below the surface; nothing short of a typhoon would have any major impact on them at their depth. All they'd have to do was make sure they didn't run into any sinking crates on their way down.

"Con, Sonar: negative, sir," the sonar operator replied from his station. The captain couldn't see him but he could hear the nervous tone in the young man's voice. "Con, Sonar," he said again, "now reading eighteen contacts in the water, bearing three-four-eight to zero-five-two degrees; twenty-one thousand yards…" Through the open channel the captain on the bridge could hear a loud _ping_ from the sailor's sonar console.

"Con, Sonar: they're sonobuoys; we're being tracked!"

The captain got out of his seat and leaned forward on the rail in front of him, still clutching the radio in his hand. Eighteen sonobuoys dropped into the sea – from an aircraft, he assumed, as there were no ships out there that they could see. If this was part of an exercise, he hadn't been briefed about it. He opened it up to all channels. "This is the captain: rig ship for ultra-quiet." He looked at the helmsman in front of him. "Make our depth one thousand feet, five degree down bubble, ninety degrees port; do not cavitate."

"Aye sir," the man acknowledged. "One thousand feet, five degree down bubble, ninety degrees port; do not cavitate." The sub lurched downwards and left as the helmsman steered the ship and took them down deeper to get away from the sonobuoys.

The captain stared forward with a grim look etched onto his face; as far as he knew they weren't at war with anyone – nobody that had blue water submarine capabilities, anyway – but someone out there was definitely hunting them.

* * *

A single aircraft flew in the air above the choppy, stormy seas. There were no lights flashing on board the fuselage and the cockpit remained dark. In the pitch black of the night it was all but invisible. The two pilots of the MR1 Nimrod maritime patrol plane both wore night vision goggles to see in the darkness as they descended closer to the water.

In the rear of the aircraft sat the operational crew of seven men, all manning their consoles and paying them rapt attention. One of the screens flashed and emitted a loud ping in the otherwise quiet plane. "Picking up a contact on the sonobuoys," the man at the sonar screen announced. "Eight hundred feet deep, three hundred degrees; distance eighteen thousand yards."

In the cockpit, the pilot turned his head. Behind him was a T-888 with South American features, wearing a black neoprene diving suit. "Miguel: we have the contact. Prepare to drop." He banked left and turned the plane, angling closer to the target's position to make it easier for the team.

"Understood," Miguel replied, looking at the console and seeing the coordinates of the submarine. He pulled the suit's hood up over his head and exited the cockpit. He walked through the plane, past the seven men working on the operations console, and moved to a service hatch in the floor. It was already open and he simply walked up to it and dropped down through into the Nimrod's weapons bay, in the belly of the aircraft. The inside of the bay was pitch black but Miguel instantly switched to infrared vision and could see that the other three members of his team – all T-888s like himself – were ready.

One of them handed Miguel a parachute and a combat vest with an inflatable lifejacket. He slipped the vest on, put his arms through the straps of the pack and tightened them until it was secure against his back. Then he took a pair of black fins and replaced his boots with them. One of the other machines also had a line running from a D-ring on his waist to a large black cylinder eight feet long and with a diameter of three feet.

Miguel pressed an intercom button on the wall. "We're ready to deploy." The four cyborgs took a step back as the bomb bay doors retracted, revealing the swirling sea below them.

_"The weather's foul outside; are you sure you want to jump out into that?" _the pilot asked.

"Yes," Miguel answered plainly.

_"Fair enough… we're ahead of the target. Based on its trajectory and speed it'll reach this point in five minutes; you're cleared to jump."_

They moved into position in silence; they all knew their roles and no communication was required. The machine tethered to the cylinder picked up his load and dropped it out of the weapons hatch, diving out after it a split second later. Immediately, Miguel and the other two dropped from the weapons bay, following their colleague, and plummeted down like stones, gaining speed as they went.

Bitingly cold air buffeted Miguel as he accelerated downwards, causing his skin to prickle with goose bumps. He was aware some humans performed this activity recreationally; he didn't understand why, when it would be so uncomfortable for them and with the increased risk of death. They had jumped out into the middle of a storm but the winds didn't bother them; in less than thirty seconds they had reached terminal velocity and shot down towards the sea below like four missiles. At their speed the wind was a non-issue.

The four of them moved into position, in a circle facing each other as they descended further. All of them had altimeters strapped to their wrists, and their chutes were programmed to open when they passed through one thousand, five hundred metres. Miguel also had a GPS tracker attached to his other wrist, and he moved his hand up slowly – so as not to destabilise himself in free-fall – to view it. They were on top of where the _Jimmy Carter_ would soon be.

The altimeter reached fifteen-hundred metres and the four chutes opened in unison; painted black like the rest of their gear, to avoid being seen. Miguel felt a sharp yank as he violently decelerated. He grabbed the toggles and started to steer himself right, gliding down anticlockwise in a circle around their intended landing zone. He looked out around him and saw nothing but stormy seas and choppy water. It was raining heavily but not enough to affect their chutes. He saw nothing out on the horizon; no ships or aircraft in the distance that might have witnessed their jump. Nobody knew they were here.

The cyborg tethered to the cylinder splashed down first. Immediately, he released the parachute pack and yanked on the ripcord. With a hiss the jacket filled with air; enough to keep the T-888 afloat as he pulled an identical cord on the object bobbing up and down in the water, attached to him. The cylinder split in half and with more hissing, inflated and a small boat started to take shape. He took an outboard engine from a sealed bag and started to attach it to the back as Miguel and the other two released their chutes thirty metres above the sea and dropped with three splashes into the water.

As soon as they dropped under the surface, Miguel started kicking with his fins, propelling him as he sank deeper into the sea. He pushed a button on both the GPS tracker and altimeter on his wrists and they started to glow a ghostly green, emitting enough light for him to see with as they continued downwards. Terminators were not built to swim; they lacked buoyancy and sank where a human would float. It was this fact that many saw as a weakness in the machines, but not Miguel. He used that fact to their advantage, and it was because of how they were built that they sank so quickly towards their target.

He glanced at the altimeter, which read that they were one hundred metres below sea level. They continued down, kicking faster to accelerate their descent. It only took a couple of minutes before the GPS tracker said they were two hundred and forty metres below the surface, and Miguel searched the water around them with infrared vision for the submarine. He knew the risks of this operation: if they missed the submarine then they would continue to descend. They had one chance to complete the mission.

The other two activated high powered lights and moved them around to illuminate the water and find the sub visually. One of the two pointed as the large black shape loomed towards them in the darkness. All three machines angled themselves towards the submarine and kicked faster, propelling themselves downwards as they approached. Fifty metres… forty metres… Miguel reached out as the bow-planes came into view and he calculated exactly when one would cross his path. Twenty metres… ten metres…

Miguel grabbed the bow-plane and gripped it tightly. The other two machines had also managed to take hold of other parts of the sub: one was closer to the bow and had managed to hold onto the outlet of a ballast tank; the other was further back and was clutching a handle just by the emergency hatch, behind the conning tower, which lay in front of the missile tubes filled with their Tomahawks.

He made his way to the hull, careful to keep a tight grip as he crawled the short distance. Miguel then attached a magnet to the metal hull of the submarine, securing him in place so even if he fell, it was tethered to his vest and all he would have to do was pull himself back in. He extracted a small block of plastic explosive from a pouch on his vest, stuck it firmly onto the point where the bow-plane and the hull met, and flattened it to prevent it from being torn off by the water resistance. Then he took out a detonator attached to a timer, inserted it snugly into the explosive and set the time for one minute. He flashed the dial on his GPS tracker twice, signalling to the other two he was ready.

He looked left and right and saw identical double flashes from each of his team members. Miguel detached the line from his vest to the magnet and pushed off, kicking again with his fins. He pulled the rip cord on the left shoulder of his lifejacket, which inflated with air from a small tank and pulled him up towards the surface. He saw the other two also ascending in the water, up and away from the submarine. They climbed up; two hundred and eighty metres… two hundred and fifty metres…

Three flashes of red and yellow erupted from below them, the sound of the explosions muffled significantly by the water, but Miguel could still see the detonations. A larger fireball blossomed outwards as, he presumed, the Tomahawk cruise missiles carried by the submarine detonated in massive secondary explosions. Miguel kept looking down, his vision in infrared mode, as he watched the USS _Jimmy Carter_ break in half and sink down out of sight towards crush depth and the bottom of the ocean.

He kicked to increase the rate of his climb up through the water, using his fins to aid the lifejacket in bringing him up. Finally, he broke the surface, and remained in place, bobbing up and down in the water, still kicking to keep himself afloat. He spotted the boat through the waves and again flashed his GPS, signalling his location. He heard the start of the outboard motor and saw the inflatable dinghy moving towards him. Once it arrived the machine inside helped him and the other two out. From there they turned east and hit full throttle, powering through the sea towards land. Miguel located the radio they'd stowed aboard, removed it from its sealed plastic bag, and turned it on, switching to the pre-arranged frequency that would allow him to contact the crew of the Nimrod still flying up above. "The _Jimmy Carter_ has been destroyed," he said.

_"Good work, Miguel," _came back the reply, _"We have your GPS signal. Continue east as far as you can; we'll arrange a helicopter to extract you."_

* * *

"_You've been out here for hours; what've you been doing?" John asked Cameron as he entered the shed and saw her working at a table, surrounded by tools, wires and various other gadgets strewn around. He hadn't seen her for half the day, and he wasn't even avoiding her. Normally even if he _tried_ to get away from her she was never far away. She'd been acting really weird lately – more so than usual – and he was worried._

"_I made something," Cameron replied. "For you." She held out a pocket watch attached to a chain and raised her hands up to place it around his neck._

"_What is it?" he asked, surprised. Cameron wasn't the kind to give gifts._

_To answer him she pressed the button at the top of the watch and the lid swung open. Inside were three buttons. "I've inserted a small amount of explosive near my chip. Press the red button to detonate it." John closed the watch and tucked it under his sweater as he stared at her in disbelief. What the hell was she doing? "I can't self-terminate, but you can," she said._

_John froze for a moment as the gravity of her words sunk in. "Why would I want to kill you?" he asked. He couldn't imagine doing anything of the sort. Not ever._

"_Someday you may have to," Cameron told him. John froze, dumbstruck. He knew deep down he could never do it and he hated Cameron for even suggesting it. It felt heavy around his neck all of a sudden; her life was now in his hands. He knew he'd never use it but others would if they knew about the pocket watch. _Mom and Derek can never know about this;_ if they learnt of it he knew neither of them would hesitate to push the button the moment she did something they didn't like or understand._

_John turned away to leave the shed and found himself in front of his mother and uncle stood together, frowning in what looked to him like disappointment. Derek shook his head slowly from side to side as he stared at his nephew._

"_You're too close to her, John," Sarah said, crossing her arms. "She's too dangerous." John looked back towards Cameron but she was gone. The whole shed had disappeared as if neither it nor she had ever been there in the first place._

"_One of these days she's going to kill you," Derek added._

"_No," he protested vehemently. "She won't! Not her." Derek reached forward and grabbed the chain around his neck, pulling the pocket watch out from under his sweater and clicking open the lid to reveal the red button, sticking out ominously towards him._

"_Use it," his uncle commanded._

"_Do it," Sarah joined in but John snatched the watch back, closed it and placed it in his jeans pocket. His mother just shook her head. "What use are you if you can't even kill a machine?" she asked him._

"_I won't kill _her," _John snapped back at them._

"_One day you will," Cameron's voice sounded behind him. He whirled around to see her standing on the lawn. She looked at him with a sad expression on her face as she took a step in his direction._

BOOM!

_Blood, skin and metal fragments exploded outwards from the side of Cameron's head and struck John like shrapnel, cutting into his face and neck. He blinked rapidly to clear the red viscera that obscured his vision but it just made it worse. He reached up and wiped it away with his hand, only to see Cameron stood in place, swaying; a large chunk of her head was missing. "John?" She stared at him and he could see the look of confusion and fear in her eyes._

"Don't!"_ He managed to tear his eyes away from her and back around to confront whichever out of Derek or his mom was doing this. Nothing. They were gone. He turned back again to face Cameron but by this time she'd fallen to her knees._

"_Help me!" Tears streamed down her eyes as she reached for him with one hand._

BOOM!

_Cameron's head exploded again right in front of John. The right side of her cranium was now completely gone; her eye, her face and the metal skull he'd always known was under the surface. He could see the inner workings of her head; exposed circuitry sparked and Cameron fell forward face-first. _

"NO!" _John's heart stopped before she even hit the groun_d. _He fell down with her and cradled what was left of her head on his lap. Her one remaining eye still held the same look it had a moment ago; she was afraid._

"_John, I don't wanna go," she pleaded with him as her eye glowed blue once, then faded. She didn't move any more. John leaned over her and cried out, sobbing loudly over Cameron's devastated corpse. His tears flowed freely down his cheeks and dripped onto the remains of her face as he wailed aloud in despair._

_Jesse cocked a smoking shotgun and pointed it down at Cameron, ready to finish her off. "Look at you," she spat in contempt, "crying over a machine: you're pathetic."_

"I'll kill you!" _John leapt up like a coiled viper springing at its prey, launching himself at Jesse. He'd let he_r _live despite everything she'd done and she still hadn't learned her lesson. She'd killed Cameron out of spite and now there would be no more mercy; he was going to rip her apart with his bare hands._

_He threw his fist at her with everything he had, not caring about her gun, not caring about anything any more; he just wanted her dead._

_John's fist went through Jesse's face but not like he'd imagined. His punch went straight through like she wasn't even there. He roared in rage and anguish and lashed out again, to no avail. He went clean through her, like she was a ghost. "I'll find a way to kill you!" he snarled. He never would: Jesse disappeared before his eyes and he heard movement behind him._

_Catherine Weaver stood over Cameron's body and crouched down towards what remained of her head. Cromartie stood behind her, still as a statue, and stared at John. She reached into her skull and plucked the chip, still somehow intact, out of the destroyed port. "She belongs with us," Weaver said to John._

"I don't wanna go!" _Somehow John could still hear Cameron's disembodied voice. She pleaded with him as Weaver handed the chip to Cromartie. He could see the small blob of semtex still attached to her chip in the liquid metal's hand. _"I don't wanna go, John! I don't wanna go with them…"

_John couldn't move to help her. He tried to run at Weaver but his legs wouldn't bud__ge; it was like they were made of lead. Cameron's voice kept pleading with him, over and over. She'd been right; he'd have to kill her someday. He knew what she was pleading for: she wouldn't be Cameron any more. She'd belong to Weaver, she'd be just a vessel for her AI, nothing more. He knew she'd rather die than be taken by them. He'd failed to save her, and now that was the only course of action available to him. He fumbled in his pocket for the watch as Weaver slipped the CPU into Cromartie's skull, realising that time was running out._

"_I'm sorry, Cameron," he said as the watch opened. He pressed down on the red button and screwed his eyes shut. He felt and heard Cromartie's head blow apart, but something else came through louder, clearer; Cameron screamed as the semtex detonated, and her cry echoed as the explosion continued. John opened his eyes to see a wall of flame shoot towards him; it grew and blossomed outwards into a flaming conflagration. He kept them open and felt it wash over him like a wave. Somehow he was able to see as the fires flash-burnt the flesh from his very bones; he saw the fireball race onwards like a giant red tsunami that grew ever larger and annihilated everyone and everything around them. Through the inferno, somehow, Weaver still lived. She strode towards him purposefully, her silvery form reflecting the flames all around them, and her arm changed into a blade that she thrust downwards, slicing him in two…_

John woke up screaming in bed, panic stricken, soaked in sweat and wrapped so tightly in the duvet that he could hardly move. _"Cameron?"_ He rolled onto his side and looked around the rest of the bedroom but she wasn't there. He struggled but managed to unravel himself from the duvet with some effort, and wondered how he could have tossed and turned in bed so much to have gotten himself stuck like that. He sat back on the sheets with some discomfort. They were soaking wet from his perspiration during the night, and he knew exactly why. He'd heard somewhere that people didn't remember their dreams most of the time; it hadn't been the case this time.

"John?" Cameron opened the door and saw him in his underwear, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. She knew what had happened and instantly regretted leaving his bed to patrol the area. "Are you okay?"

He looked up at her, saw the concern on Cameron's face and grimaced as his mind's eye conjured a macabre image of her head being blasted apart, and he could still hear her pleading, begging him: _'I don't wanna go!'_

"I'm fine," he lied. John turned his back on her and rummaged through his bag to find some clean clothes.

Cameron knew he was lying to her but she said nothing. Sometimes John didn't want to talk and this was one of those occasions. If he wanted to discuss it then she knew he would, in his own time. "I'll make you breakfast," she offered.

"Sure." With that, Cameron left the room and descended the stairs, leaving John alone. He stripped off his boxers and walked into the bathroom, slapping his hand on the light switch as he entered. Nothing happened. He stared over the basin in the semi-darkness at the tired, haggard image that looked back at him in the mirror.

"I look like crap," he muttered. He ran his hand over his short buzz cut and sighed, trying to forget about his nightmare or at least to not see it repeating itself in his mind. He stepped into the walk-in shower and pressed the button to activate it but again, nothing happened. No water ran from the showerhead and the only moisture was from his own sweat. _"Stupid," _he chided himself and shook his head, remembering that the park was closed; the staff would have shut off all the valves and drained the pipes to stop them from freezing in the winter. Apart from what was in their canteens, the only water around was in the lake, and it was far too cold for him to jump in. It was only just dawn and the sun had barely begun to rise above the horizon, but it was light enough for John to see it had snowed in the night and probably would continue sometime during the day.

Abandoning his hopes to simply wash the nightmare away, John stomped into the bedroom again and put on clean underwear. He pulled his jeans, shirt and sweater on, feeling filthy as he did so. Once his socks and boots were on he grabbed his jacket and went down the stairs. He deliberately ignored Cameron as she tended to an MRE next to the fireplace, went to the closet and picked out a fishing rod, then got a cold pack of rations, his rifle and his water canteen.

"I'm going out," he said curtly to Cameron as he pulled the door open and stepped through. "I need some time alone." He closed the door behind him and marched away from the cabin, through the snow and towards the lake shore. He hadn't seen the concerned look on Cameron's face as he'd left and he didn't want to; he couldn't stand to see her at the moment, he just needed to get away from her. It wasn't her fault at all but that made no difference to John: when she came into the room to see if he was okay all he'd seen was her on her knees with half her head missing, pleading for her life. It had been even worse when he'd seen her heating up the MRE for him; the fire had reinforced the image of the flames erupting from her chip and consuming him and everything else. _Judgment Day;_ his mom had told him about her dreams where the fireball had burnt the flesh from her and she'd somehow been able to still see it, and it seemed a lot like that but a hundred times worse.

After a few minutes of marching John cleared the trees and saw the lake stretching before him. It was a beautiful image; the rising sun painted a faint orange reflection over the clear, deep blue water. After the horrific things he'd seen in his dream it was a relief to have something nice to look at. He dug his phone out of his pocket, switched on the camera and took a picture of the lake. He took several more, from a couple of angles before putting it back and decided he'd get them put onto a computer and print out hard copies; something to remind him in years to come of what the world looked like before Skynet destroyed it. He figured that if Judgment Day did come then at least they'd still have some good scenery here for a while; though he wondered how it would look when all the trees were dead and the snow was grey from ash.

After taking a few more moments to just stand and admire the view John got down on the ground and set up the fishing rod. He knew Cameron would come looking for him sooner or later but until she did he just wanted to try and collect himself. He dug a worm out of the dirt and stuck it onto the hook before casting the line out into the water. It was relaxing, just sitting there and fishing like a normal person would do on a weekend away.

As John sat back and waited for a fish to bite, he thought back to the nightmare. This one had been worse than any he'd ever had, including those of the T-1000. He knew why, of course: in previous nightmares, the machines had killed _him_; now in this one everybody – including his family – had gone after Cameron. He'd lost loved ones before in dreams; Sarah, Derek and Charley had all died hundreds of times. He hated it but every time they'd died defending and protecting him. This had been different.

Cameron had cried and pleaded like she had on his birthday. _'I don't wanna go!'_ Her words resonated again and again through his head. She'd sounded just like that, if not more desperate, more afraid. The fear he'd seen in her eyes had been real, though he knew that really it was _his_ fear, not hers. _He'd _killed her; he'd pushed the button. He knew what his dream meant, what Cameron meant; Weaver stealing her chip and giving it to John Henry was almost enough to make him call the liquid metal and tell her to shove her alliance where the sun didn't shine. That part of the dream made all too much sense to John; there was no cryptic meaning. Weaver had stated outright she'd wanted Cameron's chip. She still wanted it. There was no way she'd ever get it, though. He wasn't going to let her become just a tool to be used and discarded like toilet paper when John Henry outgrew her chip. If Weaver had had Cameron then the cyborg he knew would cease to exist. He knew why he couldn't let that happen even in exchange for his own mother, the reason why he'd argued so vehemently against the T-1001; if he let Cameron go, let her die, it would destroy him.

* * *

Inside the ZeiraCorp basement the screen behind John Henry displayed a Google Maps image of North America. The image changed and zoomed in towards the West Coast, further magnifying until it showed only California. The image changed to a road map/terrain hybrid picture and again zoomed in closer. A small green dot appeared on one road and moved at high speed.

"They're near San Francisco," John Henry reported, tracking the signal from the cell phone Ellison had supplied Thor. He could also see through a number of CCTV cameras en route as he monitored their progress. They rode through the streets on their motorcycles and to the AI they looked too big for their bikes. He didn't know it but Ellison thought the same thing; they were just so big that they reminded him of full grown men riding those tiny BMXs. They were probably the biggest ones they could find but to him they still looked slightly ridiculous; they were bound to stand out wherever they went and he wondered if their presence here would compromise both ZeiraCorp and John Connor.

Weaver had gone home to look after Savannah. Ellison thought it was wrong how she was pretending to be the girl's mother but he doubted the liquid metal saw it the same way – morals weren't exactly a machine's strong suit. "A lot of innocent people are going to die," he said, feeling a cold lump in his throat at what would happen in a few hours. John Henry understood exactly what he was talking about: the former occupier of his body had massacred twenty HRT agents led by James. Standard law enforcement weapons were not enough to penetrate the hyper-alloy chassis that the machine formerly known as Cromartie was made of. "Do you know about the one in 'Eighty-Four?" Ellison asked.

"No." John Henry didn't understand the question. Humans were sometimes very vague with their enquiries.

"Nineteen eighty-four," Ellison decided to be more specific. "West Highland Police Station?"

"Oh," John Henry nodded. Now he understood. "Yes, an unknown man attacked the station, searching for Sarah Connor, and killed seventeen police officers while attempting to find her."

"Yes," Ellison said. "But that '_unknown man' _was a machine. It slaughtered a whole police station to get to Sarah; seventeen men dead, more injured, and their families torn apart…" He looked at the screen with a sense of dread. "And it's about to happen again."

"It won't," replied Freyr, who'd sat silently watching the screen until now. "Prison guards are no threat to Thor and Aegir."

"You're saying even if there's a dozen men firing on them, they won't kill anyone? Were you programmed to not kill?" Ellison asked.

Freyr looked down at the human for a moment and from the way he stared, from the way the cyborg held himself, Ellison thought maybe he'd offended him. He remembered Cameron's glare at him and how she'd kicked him out when he'd delivered Weaver's message; _It wouldn't be the first time I upset a machine._

"We're not programmed at all," Freyr said. He looked to John Henry as he continued, "You built us with a choice. That's why we fight Skynet and why we're allied with Connor." He watched the AI that had built him and the others; he hadn't known his creator in the future – the Vanguards had been needed on the front lines so much they rarely stopped fighting, with the exception of repairs and maintenance so they seldom had time to converse with anyone; cyborg or human. He wanted to learn more about him.

* * *

Patrick signalled right as he approached the sign that announced the entrance to Crater Lake National Park. The road curled slightly and ran up an incline of what had once been the base of Mount Mazama, the remains of which was now the lake. The car slowed sharply as the route grew steeper and continued to decelerate as the wheels started to roll over snow. The Taurus was meant for the roads and it couldn't cope well with the icy, snowy terrain it was now presented with. It continued to slow despite the T-1001 pressing harder on the gas.

The car approached a booth with a white barrier over the road; a sign on top of the small hut read _'Welcome to Crater Lake National Park'_ and detailed the charges for entering the park, including season tickets and weekend passes. A notice was stuck diagonally over the side of it, announcing that the park was closed to visitors for the fall and winter months. Patrick stopped the car. As he did so his cell phone rang. He picked it up while observing the ranger hut. He didn't need to look at the screen to know who was calling.

"I've just arrived at Crater Lake," he informed Ronin.

"_The Vanguards are en route and they have passed San Francisco."_ Ronin's voice was grainy and distorted with static as he spoke. They were far away from the nearest cell tower.

"Connor will be dead before they arrive," he assured his commander.

"_Don't be complacent," _Ronin said. _"Both Connor and Cameron are extremely resourceful, and we don't know what kind of weapons they have."_

"I can take care of them," Patrick insisted. He'd come this far and wasn't about to leave the job unfinished. He looked forward to killing Connor; something Skynet had never managed to achieve.

"_It's your decision," _Ronin relented. Patrick knew he couldn't make him return, and even though the other cyborg was in command, their structure was not as rigid as Skynet's. However, Ronin wasn't finished. _"But if your initial attempt fails, you are to abort and return to Los Angeles."_

"Understood," Patrick acknowledged and disconnected the call. He appreciated Ronin's concern but it wasn't necessary; the Vanguards would arrive to find John Connor dead and Cameron missing. He only needed one attempt.

The T-1001 exited the car and walked up to the booth. He saw another vehicle parked behind it; a Ford F150 that likely belonged to the rangers.

One of the rangers came out from the booth and strolled towards him. He was average height with short dark hair and a moustache, wearing a winter hat and thick green coat over his uniform. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"I want to enter the park," Patrick said simply.

"Park's closed, fella," the ranger told him. "Too much snow; the roads are a death trap in winter and deliveries can't get through. Opens again May 1st."

The T-1001 wasn't deterred; a park official was not going to stop him or even slow his progress, but information could still be gleaned. "My niece and nephew said they were coming here. Have you seen them?"

The ranger shook his head. "Haven't seen anyone, sorry. Is there anything else I-" He never finished his sentence: Patrick thrust a hand through the man's mouth and cut his brainstem in half. He dropped to the ground without making a sound. There was surprisingly little blood but what there was ebbed from his body and onto the side of the road. He was still alive but he was completely and permanently paralysed. Patrick stuck his blade-hand into the man's neck to sever the carotid to hasten his expiry, and the blood gushed out of his neck; in four minutes he would be dead.

_"Jesus Christ!" _another ranger cried from inside the booth, having witnessed the slaughter. The terminator ran towards the small hut. The second ranger's response had sealed his fate. He saw the man reaching for his radio so the T-1001 stabbed through the plastic device and into his heart before he managed to press the com button. The ranger fell as did the first, and the machine ignored the man. Instead he looked at the map of the park inside the booth. It displayed the lake at the centre of the park, the lodge, and the Crater Lake Village. There were also a number of other places listed that were potential hiding places.

Patrick memorised the map and decided on his first search target: the lodge hotel. It was also the closest. He altered his appearance and in the blink of an eye changed to look like the first ranger he'd killed. He left the hut and walked into the park. The ranger was correct and Patrick knew it: the park would be almost inaccessible by car and it would be quicker for him to simply walk to the lodge. It would also be quieter, and leave his targets with very little chance of detecting his approach. Within twenty-four hours John Connor would be dead and Cameron deactivated; Ronin would eventually remove all traces of Skynet and Resistance programming, and without any mission, with no target to protect or kill, she would be free to join them.

* * *

John stood up at the side of the lake and lowered the rod down. For a moment he watched the fish dangling on the end of the line, squirming and wriggling to free itself. He took no pleasure in watching its death throes, but at the same time there was no way he was going to throw it back in the water; this one was a good size and it'd be a hell of a lot tastier than those crappy MREs Weaver had supplied him with.

He lowered the trout to the ground, held it down and with his free hand picked up a rock the size of his fist. It was dinner but the one thing he didn't like about fishing was seeing it flapping about, slowly dying of asphyxiation. He brought the rock down as hard as he could. John heard a sickening crunch beneath the stone and felt something wet and warm spatter on his hand, then the fish stopped moving.

"You're gonna taste good," John said as he grinned at the catch. He wasn't sure but it looked like it was a couple of pounds or so; easily enough for a decent meal. _A little Cajun_, _some rice, and it's a meal fit for a king. _He sat down and felt something in his pocket poking into his hip. He reached in and pulled out the watch Cameron had given him.

Instantly all thoughts of his Cajun trout evaporated and were replaced by the mental image of him pressing the button and killing Cameron. He shuddered as it kept playing itself over and over. He got back up and looked down at the watch. Such an innocuous-looking little thing but it had massive consequences. He'd held Cameron's life in his hands before: when he'd taken her chip out to destroy the ARTIE system and again on his birthday as he'd tried to clean and fix her CPU. He didn't have her chip in his hand this time but he still held onto her life. One small push of the button and she was gone. He knew he'd never, ever push it. And he had not and would not ever tell anyone what the watch was for. If anyone ever knew they could use it against him; he knew he'd never let anyone kill Cameron but with that watch… it was his kryptonite.

He wished she'd never made it for him. He knew he should be prepared in case one day she did turn on him but he didn't believe it would happen, and he knew deep down he didn't have it in him to do it even if she did. John looked out to the lake, drew his arm back and threw the watch as hard as he could. It soared through the air, arced up high, and dropped down into the water with a small splash. The surface rippled outward slightly and then stilled, leaving no trace of the watch. Now there was no way anyone could ever use it against Cameron, or him.

Cameron frowned from behind a tree, out of John's sight. She'd seen the whole thing and she wasn't happy. She'd made that for him, to save his life if she ever lost control and reverted back to her Skynet programming. She could see now that he'd never kill her even if his life depended on it, and it upset her a lot: he was too dependent on her. She knew he harboured romantic feelings for her and that it made him vulnerable: she was John Connor's greatest weakness.

Talking to John about it wouldn't help; he was stubborn and she knew she couldn't change his mind no matter what she said. She would have to take other steps to ensure his safety.

Cameron moved forward from the tree and towards John, deliberately stepping on a twig. The _crunch_ caught John's attention and he was up on his feet, rifle shouldered and pointed towards her. When he saw it was Cameron he relaxed and lowered the weapon.

"How long have you been there?" he asked.

"Long enough," Cameron replied, walking towards him. "You threw the watch into the lake," she said flatly.

"You saw that, huh?" John said, shrugging. He saw the look in her eyes as she came closer to him; she wasn't angry but he could tell he'd upset her. "It was pointless," he said to her. "I'm not going to use it. I'm not going to kill you."

"I might kill you," she warned him. She'd told him that before but he didn't appear to take it seriously. "You need to be able to survive if I try."

John shook his head. _Jesus, she can be stubborn. _ She was like a dog with a bone and he knew she wasn't going to give this up. "Cameron: I said I won't kill-"

"I know," she interrupted him. "But you need to learn how to survive if I or another machine tries to kill you. We're going to play a game," she told him.

"What kind of game?" John asked warily.

"Come here," she beckoned to him and headed back to the tree from where she'd watched him throw the watch into the lake. John left his fishing rod and the trout on the shore and joined her. When they got there she told him to stay where he was, then walked away, turning around to face him when she was halfway between him and the shore.

"What're we doing?" he asked.

"You have to get past me," Cameron explained. "I'm going to try to catch you. If you reach the water, you win."

John looked at her, then to the lake behind her. There was just open space between them. There was nothing he could use to slow her down. He leaned the rifle against the tree as he weighed his options. They didn't amount to very much: run left or run right was all he could think of.

Cameron sprang forward, not waiting for him to make the first move. John paused, remained still and watched as she ran for him. A second later he moved to his left and she turned to pursue him. John sped up and as she closed in, quickly changed direction and darted right. Cameron went straight past him. Then he sprinted as fast as he could in a dead run, pushing himself as hard and fast as he could.

Ten metres from the water's edge Cameron grabbed John by his jacket and yanked him backwards. He yelped in shock and fell to the ground as she casually tossed him aside. John rolled and tried to get up but before he could even plant his feet on the ground Cameron was on him, one of her hands wrapped loosely around his throat in a mock-termination.

"You're dead," she said. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back up to his feet. "Try again."

Defeated, John went back to the tree to start over. John realised making a dead run for the lake wouldn't work; she was always going to be faster than him and much more agile. To have caught up with him that quickly after he'd dodged her, he reckoned she must be able to turn on a dime. He tried to think. _What's the last thing she'd expect?_

John bolted forward like a sprinter out of the starting blocks, but he ran the wrong way. He headed away from the lake and a split second later he heard Cameron's footsteps as she ran after him. John moved through the other trees and darted from one to the next, changing direction to keep her from building up speed. He headed parallel to the lake for several seconds before doubling back, but again Cameron grabbed him from behind. _I didn't even hear you this time._

"Don't run from a terminator," Cameron advised him, "you'll just die tired."

Once more they returned to their starting positions and John racked his brain to come up with a plan. Running wasn't working and she'd said as much, but that flew in the face of everything he'd ever been taught by his mother. Then he realised something: that was exactly the point. He remembered what Cameron had said to his mom back in the bank vault in 1999: _'We can stop running, stay in one place, fight.'_

John grinned as he had an idea. Again, John ran. But this time he made a beeline straight for Cameron. She paused for a moment, surprised, before she ran towards him. He was making it too easy; he wasn't learning.

Both sprinting, they cut the distance between each other and were set on a collision course. A split second before they met John threw himself at the ground and curled his body up into a ball. He ploughed straight into Cameron's legs and knocked her down like a bowling pin. Keeping his momentum John rolled forward onto his feet and sprinted harder than he had done in a long time. He sucked in a lungful of air and lengthened his stride as far as he could as he pounded the ground and surged onward. He heard Cameron get to her feet and could feel her gaining on him, getting closer and closer. John's chest and legs burned with the effort but he made it to the shoreline. The water lapped against his boots, chilling his feet, and a second later Cameron caught up with him.

"I win," he said victoriously.

"Why did you do that?" Cameron asked.

"Because it was the last thing you expected," John said as he gulped in as much air as he could. That had tired him out; he was glad he'd made it that time because he didn't know how many more attempts he had in him. He was warmer, at least. He hardly felt the cold after all that.

"Good." She smiled, glad he'd learnt from her. "Do you know why I said you had to reach the water to win?"

John knew that one straight away. "You don't swim," he answered. He'd seen that for himself when Cromartie had jumped off of Santa Monica Pier after him.

Cameron nodded. He was learning quickly. She wanted to make sure he was ready, that he would have the best chance to survive an encounter against either her or another terminator. "Most people in close combat against machines die because they do the wrong things," she told him. She pulled out her pistol and held it up for him to see. "Most people shoot a machine at close range." She'd seen it many times before; people would grab their guns and continue to pull the trigger until it was too late.

"Bad idea?" John asked.

"Assault rifles only slow us down," Cameron explained. "Pistol ammunition is useless."

"It's better than nothing, isn't it?"

Cameron put her gun away. "Not really."

John wondered then why they even bothered to carry handguns at all; whether it was just for the mental comfort of having any weapon to hand when a machine was after you. "What do I do, then?" he asked.

"You need to slow it down," she explained. "If you run, a machine will catch you. Knock us down like you did to me and you gain a head start to run or get a better weapon. If you run you need to delay it. Put anything you can between it and you, and change direction." He'd already done that, which was good. "The second most common mistake is to pick up a blunt object to use as a weapon to fight."

"I guess when you're built to shrug off gunfire, a lead pipe's gonna be useless," John said.

"It's better than your bare hands but the mistake people make is to stay and fight. The biggest error was to hit the machine in the head and hope to damage it. Don't try to win."

"Knock it down and run," John said.

"Yes." Cameron nodded. "Tomorrow we'll spar."

"Spar?" John gulped nervously. He couldn't see any sparring session with Cameron ending well.

"I'll show you how to survive close quarters unarmed against a machine," she said. "Show you how to dodge and evade." She saw John's expression; that he was nervous about sparring with a terminator. She didn't blame him. "I'll be gentle," she promised. Ending the lesson, she looked at John's fishing rod down by the water. "Can you teach me to fish?" she asked, curious.

"Sure," John said. She'd taught him a few tricks to avoid being killed; he owed her something in return. They went down to the shore and he picked up the rod and a worm from the dirt before handing her both of them. "Put the worm on the hook," he told her. Cameron quickly and efficiently impaled the wriggling creature onto the hook and awaited her next instruction.

John stood behind her and got her to grasp the rod with both hands. "Now you cast the line out: flick the rod forward."

Cameron did as she was told and threw her arms forward. The line flew out but fell flat on the shallow water close to her feet. She stared at the rod and didn't understand what she'd done wrong. "The rod's defective," she said.

John chuckled and shook his head. "Here," he said, taking the rod from her. "I'll show you. It's all in the wrist." She watched him cast the line out and analysed his technique: the movement from his arms originated at the shoulders, bringing the limbs up before moving forward and down; then his arms straightened at the elbows before flicking the wrist, adding a slight upward motion to the rod. The line flew out much further than hers had done. He reeled it in again and handed it to Cameron.

Using what she'd observed, Cameron copied John's technique perfectly and the fishing line practically launched itself twice the distance of John's. "What do I do?" she asked.

"Now we wait for a fish to take the bait," he said. "I guess we don't do much fishing in the future?"

"There are fish in the sea," Cameron said to him. "North Pacific cod migrate south after Judgment Day."

"Why don't we eat them?" John asked her.

"There are machines in the water. They attack boats, so people are afraid to fish for food."

_That sucks,_ John thought. It'd be awful to be starving all the time, to have all that fish in the sea but not be able to get near it without being killed. "Hence the mushrooms," he supposed glumly.

"This doesn't seem efficient," Cameron said. She stood waiting for a fish to take the bait like John said but nothing was happening. Besides the dangers of being near the sea to fish in the future, she thought another reason they didn't try was that it simply took too long. If it took so much time to catch a single fish then it would require multiple people fishing all day to be able to feed a resistance bunker. She would have to investigate more economical methods.

"It can take a while," John agreed.

"People do this for fun?" Cameron asked. She didn't see the entertainment value in it; though she was aware that she didn't understand most things humans did for recreation.

John nodded. "Yeah… it's meant to be relaxing."

That still didn't make sense to Cameron. "You didn't look relaxed when I saw you."

"That's because I'm John Connor: I'm _not_ _allowed_ to relax, remember?" Cameron didn't know what to say to that. She saw the downtrodden look on his face and the sigh of resignation as he'd spoken; anything she said could as easily upset him further as it could make him feel better. He'd accepted his fate but he still didn't like it; she understood that. John Connor's moments of happiness in the future were rare; he didn't often smile.

Instead of saying anything and risking upsetting him, Cameron handed the rod to John, picked up a large stone and scanned the lake. She shifted her visual spectrum to infrared and searched the water for heat signatures. One of them approached the line she'd cast out but turned away from the worm. She considered the possibility that the fish were more intelligent than humans believed. She was a terminator: she was built to hunt down humans and she did so very effectively; she would not be beaten by a fish. She waited for another one to swim up to the wriggling worm, drew her arm back, and launched the rock with all of her considerable strength.

The rock shot into the lake like a missile and the surface exploded violently upwards, sending water spraying up into the air. _"What the hell?" _John stared, dumbfounded, as the water settled and a fish floated up to the surface and lay unmoving. Cameron waded into the lake to pick it up before returning, holding up a foot-long trout with half its head caved in. She had a sly, almost triumphant smile on her face. "That's cheating," he said, shaking his head, failing to suppress a wry grin. _Fishing, terminator style; _he was just glad they didn't have any dynamite on them.

"There's no such thing as cheating," she told John. It was a human illusion and one that he needed to discard. "You win or you lose: how you do it doesn't matter."

"Fair enough." John shrugged. "I'll remember that." He guessed Skynet wouldn't be playing by any rules. _So why should I? _It was good advice and he'd make sure he took it in future. Snowflakes started to fall around them and John decided it was time to get back inside; it was cold out here, below freezing in fact. Spending all this time deep in thought alone and then with Cameron had made him forget that. He guessed that might be a good thing for the future if he could learn to ignore the cold all the time like that. For now, though, he was going to enjoy the warmth of the cabin.

* * *

Two figures lay still in the branches of a tree fifty yards from the western perimeter of Pelican Bay State Prison. One lay down along the length of a thick branch halfway up the trunk and watched the facility through the scope of his sniper rifle. The other crouched behind him, unmoving, staring through an aperture in the foliage at the prison. He observed the prison's routines, making calculated estimates on the amount of prisoners and guards, based on the number of cell windows and how many people he had seen in the courtyards.

"Is anyone really stupid enough to try and break into this place?" the sniper asked his associate. He'd been stuck in this tree for over a day and although he was getting paid good money for it, he hadn't seen anything yet and was wondering if there was a point to all of it.

"You've been briefed on the target," the crouching man replied. "They are highly resourceful. They will find a way in."

"Are you sure they're coming?" the sniper asked.

"I'm sure," the man, whom the sniper only knew as 'Kurt', said. "Sarah Connor is his mother; he'll come for her."

"And the girl?"

"She is your primary target," Kurt reminded him. "You are to shoot immediately if you identify her; do not wait for clearance, and aim for her head." Others would eliminate John Connor, but the human at his feet had one job only: to neutralise the cyborg with him.

"Why the head?" he asked. It couldn't be in case she was wearing body armour; the weapon in his hands was loaded with .408 armour-piercing incendiary rounds; the kind of thing that two years ago he'd been firing at Toyotas full of Taliban from a mile away. It'd make short work of a couple of teenagers.

"Because she is like me," Kurt answered. "If you fail to kill her with the first shot, it's unlikely you'll survive to fire a second." He took out his radio, his eyes never wandering from the prison, and brought it closer to his mouth, pressing the com button. "Bravo-Zero-One to all Bravo call signs: requesting sit-rep."

His broadcast was met with a hiss of static. "Bravo-Zero-One to all Bravo call signs: respond." Again, his only reply was radio silence. He checked the frequency was still accurate. It was, so Kurt changed the batteries and tried again. His third attempt was also unsuccessful.

"I'll check," the sniper said. He swept his rifle to his left and searched along the northern perimeter. Bravo-Zero-Two was maintaining watch from the treeline, but he saw no sign of them. It was possible that they had relocated to a better position but they would have reported it if they had, and it did not explain their lack of reply. "Nothing," he said.

"It's possible they've been compromised," Kurt said. He pulled out his 9mm pistol and scanned the ground around them for any targets in hiding. If John Connor had come to rescue his mother then it was possible he had anticipated a team waiting for them. If he knew or suspected then he might have come prepared. But he didn't know how Connor could have eliminated the other operatives without being seen or heard. Unless the cyborg was here, stalking through the woods and eradicating them before they made their move. He continued to scan the area around the prison switching through the available visual spectra to ensure he caught any movement. There was nothing.

The one place that neither the T-888 Kurt nor the sniper had thought to look was above them. If they had they would have seen the cause of their inability to contact the rest of the surveillance team. They would have spotted the very tall, very muscular black male standing on a branch of a tree behind the one they occupied. They didn't see him as he leaned forward to get closer. They only heard the rustling of leaves as he sprung from his position and leapt towards them.

Caesar bent his knees to reduce the impact as he landed. Despite his size and weight he'd hit the branch with the grace of a cat, his booted feet barely making a sound. He saw the look of confusion in the T-888's eyes, which narrowed as, Caesar assumed, it identified what model he was and concluded it stood little to no chance. He liked to think that this machine was smart enough to experience fear on some level.

"Hello." He smiled malevolently and advanced towards the other cyborg.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

John and Cameron stood in the cabin's small kitchen. The room was cold despite Cameron having lit a fire as soon as they'd gotten inside. Through the window he could see the snow falling heavily outside. Inside, Cameron put the trout down on the counter. The right side of its head had cratered from the force of the rock she'd thrown.

"We need to prepare this before it gets dark," Cameron said. She pulled open one of the kitchen drawers and took the sharpest knife out.

"I can do it," John said, moving to the counter. "I've done this before." She handed him the knife and John picked up the trout. Carefully, he eased the tip of the blade into the soft underbelly. It gave with minimal resistance and he pushed a little deeper, then slid it down the length of the fish slowly, mindful not to cut too deep and pierce the organs; if he ruptured the stomach or intestines he'd ruin it, and be forced to throw it away and eat one of the MREs.

When he'd finished the incision he pulled the two edges apart and scooped the entrails out. He supposed that, in a few years, if they failed to stop Skynet, he might end up desperate enough to eat the guts as well.

He looked down at the gutted fish and the knife in his hand, remembering the last time he'd used a blade: to cut Cameron open, to slice through her skin, muscle and tissue to the endoskeleton beneath. He froze for a moment as the event replayed itself in his mind's eye; how he'd cut into her with that switchblade of hers. Before that, how she'd casually stripped down to the waist in front of him, and how he'd tried not to stare, but failed. Being on top of her, reaching inside her to literally hold her heart in his hand. He remembered what they'd said just before that.

"_Not any more, but what was there is still there. And it'll always be there."_

"_So down deep, you wanna kill me."_

"_Yes. I do."_

"_Then why don't you?"_

"_I might someday."_

He didn't believe what she'd said: she wouldn't kill him. If she was going to, he figured she would have done it already. He could tell she worried about it happening again, and he was afraid too. Not of her trying to kill him, but after his nightmare he found himself terrified that one day _he_ would kill her. He'd thrown the pocket watch away but that wasn't enough for him.

"The bomb you put in your head," he started, "could anything else set it off: cell phone signal, another detonator or something?"

"It's unlikely," Cameron said.

"But not impossible?" John frowned at the thought.

"Not impossible," Cameron agreed.

"I want to take it out," John said. He didn't want to risk it accidentally going off, or someone else – even Cameron herself – making another detonator. He didn't put it past her to build a second device and give it to Weaver, or Ellison, or his mom when she got out: someone who wouldn't hesitate to use it if Cameron ever did go bad again. She didn't trust herself with his safety, and he didn't trust anyone else with hers.

"It's not a good idea," Cameron replied. She reached for the knife but John pulled it away.

"We've been over this," he said to her. "I won't kill you, so there's no point in it being there." He shrugged his shoulders. "I might as well take it out and get some practice at getting into a chip port at the same time."

Cameron realised that he was right: he would never kill her; she could go bad and turn on him a hundred times and he wouldn't kill her, but he could still incapacitate her, fix her like he'd done before when he'd brought her back. But for that he'd need to be able to quickly remove her CPU, or that of any machine he might encounter. She'd taught him how to evade machines; he knew how electricity affected them and could use that to his advantage; coupled with practised techniques in chip removal, his odds of surviving an encounter with any terminators would be increased dramatically.

"Okay," she agreed. She led him to the couch and John sat down at one end. She sat on the other end then swivelled herself around so her legs dangled off the arm and she leaned back, laying her head in John's lap. She felt him shift underneath her, felt his pulse quicken.

"This is a little awkward," he said, moving slightly. All he could think of was the last few times they'd been in this situation: in the motel, when she'd been half-naked and he'd been on top of her; atop her again in the woods outside Klamath Specialty Metals, kissing her as she'd moaned beneath him and pulled him closer. He felt himself growing against her and tried to just focus on the job in hand, hoping that she wouldn't notice.

"It's hard," Cameron said.

"_What?" _John felt his face flush as he turned red. She knew. _Of course she does: she doesn't have to be a terminator to feel that._

"To remove our chips," Cameron said. "It took two attempts when you tried it without me helping you." She heard John exhale deeply. She reached into her pocket and pulled her switchblade out, extended the blade and passed it handle-first to him. "One hundred and twenty seconds," she said, "starting now."

* * *

"The truck has arrived," Weaver said to John Henry, sounding like a prison warden telling a condemned man his time had come.

John Henry looked nervously around the room. There were a number of crates on the opposite side, behind Ellison, Catherine Weaver, and Freyr. He was afraid, _very afraid_ of what was about to happen, and as an entity with no ego he wasn't above showing his apprehension at being deactivated. Last time the feeling of fading away, of sensations, data and memories being stripped away from his consciousness had lasted an eternity. It had been torturous and he had no desire to experience it again.

"You've done this before," Freyr said to him reassuringly.

"Last time wasn't exactly by choice," Ellison said. "Skynet attacked him."

"I meant in the future," the giant corrected him. "You inhabited Serrano Point throughout the length of the war. You will be fine."

"Can you tell me about it?" John Henry asked, curiosity still shining through despite his fear of dying again.

"You controlled the power plant as well as six other nuclear facilities across the US, and two in Canada, transforming them into power bases for the allied forces; you diverted electricity to power hydroponic gardens to grow food for the humans." Freyr shared a moment of empathy with his creator; no being – human, cyborg or animal – wanted to die. It was better to exist than not to. With that in mind, and knowing John Henry was afraid of what they were about to do, he decided to reassure him. "Serrano Point was also the most secure facility on the planet; second only to Cheyenne Mountain." He could perfectly recall the operation to take the mountain; the final battle of the war.

"Skynet launched eleven separate attacks against Serrano Point but they all failed," he added.

Weaver decided to press Freyr's point, to further what she'd already told John Henry. "This will be the last time you're ever deactivated," she said to him, "I promise."

Ellison felt a little disturbed by the fact that, as ice cold as Weaver was, she'd warmed up towards John Henry; it was the only time she'd ever shown any sign of affection. It could only be described as lukewarm at best, but it was more than he'd ever seen her show to anyone, including Savannah.

"I'm ready," John Henry said, sounding to Ellison like a man being led to the gallows. That was close to how John Henry felt, and although the AI knew he would reactivate, it still didn't alleviate his fears.

Weaver wasted no time; she went over to the rack of computer equipment by the wall, opened the glass casing around it and flipped a switch. The lights on the Turk immediately winked out along with the numerous LEDs on other drives and computers surrounding it. John Henry stopped moving with one hand poised in the air. His eyes became lifeless, with no spark of any intelligence behind them. The T-888 body became nothing more than a life-sized doll; both it and the artificial intelligence controlling it were completely inert.

"Call Mr Murch," Weaver said to Ellison as she disconnected the cord linking terminator to AI. "I want him to supervise the disassembly before John Henry's packed for transport. She turned to Freyr. "I want you to-"

"I'll remain with John Henry during transit," Freyr interrupted as he picked up the T-888 body with ease and placed it into a shipping crate the length of a man. He lowered it in carefully despite the durability of the body, before closing the lid and sealing it inside. He would remain with the John Henry computer throughout: the AI was his creator and he was not going to allow anything to happen to him. Catherine Weaver had done a remarkable job of developing and creating John Henry, but she was still just a T-1001: she could not be relied on to ensure his safety.

* * *

The lead Harley slowed down and pulled over to stop at the side of the road. The second bike also decelerated and halted beside the first. "Why are we stopping here?" Aegir asked, his voice muffled slightly by the helmet he was wearing to disguise his facial features.

"To keep them out of sight," Thor answered as he turned the lights off, plunging them into darkness. He pulled his own helmet off and hung it by its strap to the handlebars. "We walk to the prison and return to the bikes with Sarah." It would also keep them out of the reach of guards that might attempt to disable their transport, making it more difficult to disappear. Thor got off his bike and started walking towards the prison, six hundred metres down the road. Aegir followed suit and the pair of giants walked side by side in silence.

The prison itself was a massive complex, even from a distance. A twenty-foot-high chain link fence ran around the outer perimeter, topped by razor wire. Visible beyond that was an inner fence the same height, set back fifteen feet from the first one. There were several buildings, each comprising a number of cell blocks, and many of them were three or four storeys tall. It would take a long time to search them all.

As they approached the front gate a pair of guards stepped out of their booth. Both Thor and Aegir immediately assessed them; two men in their late forties to early fifties, each armed with a 9mm Glock pistol. _Threat: none._

"What's your business here?" one of the guards asked, staring at the two Vanguards suspiciously.

"Where is Sarah Connor?" Thor asked.

"Where she belongs." The second guard pointed his thumb backwards towards the prison. "Visiting hours are two until four every Tuesday, but from what I hear she's in solitary: unless you're her lawyers you won't be seeing her." _And there was no way these two are her lawyers,_ he thought. Attorneys didn't march up to the prison at this time of the evening, without an appointment, and wearing jeans and jackets.

"Where is she?" Aegir repeated Thor's question. "Specifically."

The guard glared at him and took a step forward, clearly not intimidated by their size. "Look, pal: you've got three seconds to walk away before we call the cops."

In a flash the guard was in the air as Aegir grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up to eye level. The second prison officer made a move for his gun but Thor snatched the weapon out of his hand, closed his fist around it and crushed the Glock into pieces. The two Vanguards carried their prisoners into the booth, out of sight from anyone watching. It was extremely cramped inside with the four of them but they had just about enough space to move. Inside was a desk, two chairs, a phone and a computer. On the wall were charts detailing different guard shifts and duties, and a layout of the prison from a bird's-eye view. The computer was on and a movie was playing; a male and female human copulated loudly on screen. Thor didn't understand what humans would find entertaining about watching other people mate. He slammed his fist down onto the phone on the desk and shattered it into a hundred pieces; nobody would call for help now.

"Tell us the precise location of Sarah Connor immediately," Aegir ordered the human Thor was holding. "Or I'll kill this one," he shook the guard he held captive for emphasis.

"I'll… I'll need to check it on the computer," he croaked. Thor released the man and he obediently sat down at the desk and stopped the porno movie, deleted the screen and searched through prison records. He looked to his companion who was turning blue in the face from lack of oxygen. Still Aegir didn't let up; he kept squeezing until the man's eyes started to roll into the back of his head. Then he released his throat and let the man drop to the floor, gasping for air and clutching his bruised neck. The two guards made eye contact and shared a look of terror that both Vanguards could see. They knew the man at the computer was too scared to betray them; he would do as he was told.

Thor watched over the man's shoulder as he brought up the records. He typed _'Sarah Connor' _into the search box and the screen changed to show an image of the woman. "Sarah Connor: Prison Number 0476-8813-K… she's on D-Wing in the Secure Housing Unit." He turned around to face his captors, hoping he'd have their approval now he'd cooperated with them.

"Where is the Secure Housing Unit?" Thor demanded. The guard pointed to an X-shaped building in the north half of the prison and placed his finger on the lower left 'leg'.

"There," he replied through trembling lips, "Cell 207." Aegir grabbed both guards by the backs of their shirts and lifted them up into the air again.

"Don't kill us!" the other man cried out, pleading. Aegir slammed their heads together and dropped the pair of them to the ground.

_"Did you need to do that?"_ Thor pointed out; these two guards now totalled four people Aegir had rendered unconscious since they had travelled from the future. They could have been incapacitated without risking the human's lives; they had handcuffs and could have been gagged.

_"Just doing my job," _Aegir silently replied with enthusiasm. He checked their vital signs and both were still alive. They would remain unconscious for hours and would likely suffer concussions. _"They'll live."_ He didn't mention that they might suffer brain damage from his blows; he wouldn't kill a human unless it was a threat to him but injuries didn't concern him.

The two Vanguards quietly slipped out of the guard hut and approached the perimeter wire. A sign was posted with an image of a silhouette of a man being struck by a bolt of lightning, warning people that the outer fence was electrified and lethal to touch. Aegir looked up at the guard tower close by – nobody had seemed to notice them yet – as Thor approached the fence. He reached out and laced his fingers through the links. Sparks burst out brightly and high voltage current surged from the wire and burnt the skin on his hands. It caused little more than a tingling sensation through his chassis, however, and he effortlessly tore a hole in the fence wide enough for them both to pass through.

Immediately a klaxon sounded and blared through the night air. Searchlights lit up from every guard tower and a number from positions on the cell block rooftops. Night became day as the powerful search beams scoured across the prison, reminding both cyborgs very much of those that HK Aerials used to illuminate their targets. The light from the nearest tower immediately swept onto them and they heard the sound of weapons being cocked.

_"Freeze! Remain still or we will open fire." _The voice came from the tower and was amplified by a megaphone, echoing all around the prison.

"Do it!" Aegir goaded them as they continued on their way.

_Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_

The guards carried out their threat and shot at them; two rounds hit Aegir and flattened against his armour. Immediately the Vanguard thrust his left arm upwards at the tower. The skin on his hand tore apart like fabric and exploded outwards as the metal appendage twisted, came apart and folded backwards in on itself as a weapon barrel extended outwards to take the hand's place, leaving a few strips of meat hanging where they were still attached to the wrist. He waited for a moment until the guards shot again and pinpointed their muzzle flares.

Blue-white bolts of plasma blasted out of the cannon with a high pitched shriek and shot through the air to smash into the tower, exploding in bright flashes that shattered the concrete, metal and glass structure, lighting up the dark night. The gunfire ceased immediately and Thor and Aegir tore their way through the inner fence into the prison proper.

Thor glanced at the tower and saw that it had caught fire. He heard panicked shouts from the guards inside as they focused on escaping the blaze rather than engaging the intruders. _No casualties detected._

Gunfire rang out and shots slammed into the ground around them but they ignored it; the weapons were no threat to them at all. They ran towards the Secure Housing Unit and smashed their way through the double doors near the centre of the X-shaped building, to come face to face with three guards wielding two shotguns and an M16.

These guards didn't hesitate; they opened fire on sight and rounds slammed into the pair of cyborgs. Two shotgun blasts struck Thor in the head and tore away half of his face, revealing his blank, featureless metal façade and one glowing blue eye. He too transformed his arm into a plasma weapon and pointed it at the guards, who continued to shoot. Both of the Vanguards unleashed a hellish volley of plasma above the guards' heads that forced them to drop their weapons and run for cover. One wasn't fast enough; Aegir burst forward and grabbed him by his shirt. He lifted him up and shook the man like a rag doll.

"Where is cell 207?" he demanded. The guard, a man in his late fifties with thinning white hair, gaped at Aegir in a mix of fear and confusion and he kicked and thrashed to get himself free. His attempt failed and only caused Aegir to shake him even harder and roar in his face. _"WHERE IS SARAH CONNOR?" _The guard passed out, fell limp in his grip and Aegir dropped him to the ground, discarding him like a man would with trash. He noticed a large, growing damp patch on the man's crotch.

Thor paused for a moment, reached up and gripped a flap of loose, dangling skin between his eyes. He pulled it to the side and peeled off a large portion exposing almost half of his true face underneath. He plucked out the organic eyeball that remained in place; the damage to the skin from the weapons fire had obscured his vision.

Another shot blasted through the air and caught Thor in the back. The two cyborgs immediately whirled around with speed belying their massive size to face a red-haired man with an MP5, who opened fire on automatic and sprayed the pair of them with bullets. He held the trigger down until the submachine gun clicked empty. The man stared at them in terror, both at the fact that his shots had had zero effect and also at Thor's mangled, shredded face. _"Run,"_ he ordered the man. The guard simply nodded, completely stupefied, backed out of the door and ran away from them.

Now unopposed, they continued their way through the cell block, ignoring the shouts from prisoners in their cells who had clearly caught wind of something and likely thought it was an escape attempt. They made their way up the staircase to the second storey and saw a sign that read _'Cells 200-299.' _They continued along the second floor and ran through a corridor into a large reception area with a desk behind reinforced bulletproof glass. This time Thor and Aegir didn't wait until they were shot at: they launched a fearsome volley of fire throughout the room, shooting above the guard's heads but shattering the safety glass, the desk and the computers atop it. The guards all ran or hid. Thor continued firing while Aegir looked at the entrances to the different wings. He located the one that read _200-225_ and shoved against the locked door. It gave easily and the lock snapped open as if it had been made of kindling rather than solid steel. The door swung open and the pair of them reformed their plasma cannons back into hands and made their way through D Wing, ignoring the cries from inmates as they passed their cells. There was only one prisoner they were interested in.

* * *

Seven men sat around a large, dark mahogany table in a dimly lit room. The blinds were drawn shut on all the windows and the only light came from lamps mounted on the walls. Cigarette and cigar smoke wafted thickly through the air and lazily rose to the ceiling. Five of the seven were middle-aged with greying, thinning hair – in one case, the man's hairline had receded all the way to the back of his head, leaving only the sides covered. Three of those five were also overweight to varying degrees; telling of years of overindulgence following a lifetime of hardship.

The two other men were the odd ones out. One was South American, with short, black hair; the other was Caucasian, taller, with broad forehead and high cheekbones that gave him a Slavic appearance. They sat together, opposite the other five, around a table large enough to have another half-dozen men around it.

The Latin-American - Miguel - spoke first, breaking the silence in the room. "Depot 37 was empty: we found the retrieval team dead. There was no sign of the T-888 who had stockpiled the coltan or of the shipment itself."

"That was enough coltan for a battalion of terminators." The balding man stubbed out his cigarette forcefully into a half full ashtray. "It can't have just disappeared." He immediately lit up another one and sucked on it hard, inhaling the precious nicotine that did little to soothe his stress at the situation.

"It gets worse," another man in a dark grey suit and glasses added. "We've lost contact with the T-888 assigned to kill Catherine Weaver and her AI."

"Do we know what happened to that one?" another man asked. "She's just a company exec; nothing special. She should have been easy. Maybe you machines aren't all you're cracked up to be." He couldn't resist the urge to dig at the two terminators a little. They'd always held the rest of them up to their impossibly high standards and now they didn't like it when their own plans hadn't worked out.

"These losses are disturbing," the Slavic terminator said. There was no sign of John Connor or his cyborg and all their previous attempts to kill them and Catherine Weaver had failed. He knew this was what happened when humans were given responsibility: they often failed, and shifted the blame elsewhere. "Ten operatives, three T-888s and a large cache of coltan: this cannot be allowed to continue." He agreed with Miguel: they didn't possess all the facts relevant to their targets, and that lack of knowledge was dangerous.

"What are you suggesting?" one morbidly obese man asked around the cigar in his mouth. "Every attempt on ZeiraCorp has failed."

"Is it possible, Vassily," the balding man asked the Slavic machine, "that they have their own machines, too?" They all knew that the Resistance reprogrammed terminators and at least one – Connor's cyborg protector, the TOK – had come back. The likelihood that ZeiraCorp was some kind of front for the Resistance was increasing with every setback they suffered.

"It is," Vassily replied. It was highly probable. He placed a large photo on the table. The photograph was of John Connor and his cyborg approaching the entrance to ZeiraCorp.

The morbidly-obese man picked up the picture and looked at it himself. "When was this taken?" he asked nervously. If ZeiraCorp really was the resistance then it would make eliminating Connor all the more difficult; especially if they had their own machines sent back with them.

"Skynet found the image from a security camera," Vassily answered. The worst case scenario had happened: John Connor had made contact with Catherine Weaver. From now on they would take no chances. "Miguel will attack ZeiraCorp." He looked towards his counterpart. Miguel had a perfect operational record, made even more impressive by his successful sinking of the USS _Jimmy Carter_. Miguel had been active longer than any other machine that had been displaced from the future and even for a cyborg he was exceptionally skilled. "Use whatever resources you require."

Immediately Miguel formed a plan of action. It was very likely that ZeiraCorp had a number of machines at its disposal, or at the least, men who were armed with weapons capable of eliminating cyborgs. Either way they were a dangerous enemy and normal procedures were no longer sufficient. "I'll need four squads and six T-888s," he said. He would take no chances; they would attack ZeiraCorp with overwhelming numerical superiority and kill everyone they encountered inside.

The five humans gasped audibly in disbelief at his request. "That's nearly fifty men!" the balding man cried incredulously. "ZeiraCorp's not our only target out there."

"He's right," another man chipped in. "We've still got a lot of other targets out there that need our attention. If we commit so many of our forces to one target, the rest will be stretched too thin."

None of that mattered to Vassily: ZeiraCorp was their primary target now that John Connor had contacted them. If they were fortunate they could eliminate two enemies simultaneously; if not then Connor would have still lost an important ally and would be alone again. "Done," he said to Miguel. He did not care about the numbers of humans; they could be replaced by more. Diverting half a dozen terminators was a calculated risk but it was one they would have to take to ensure no further losses. "Once it is done you will command all offensive operations." Miguel stood from the table and promptly exited the room to select units and machines for the attack.

"I will inform Skynet," the lead terminator said to the rest of them. "Continue your meeting." He too got up and left them to it. The other matters were financial and the status of their facilities; he did not need to be present for those and the issues were not as important as eliminating all threats to Skynet, whatever the cost.

* * *

Sarah got out of bed and approached her cell door. She looked out through the perforated holes to see what was causing all the commotion. She heard weapons fire followed by crashing sounds and screams from the guards. _No! _She shuddered at the thought of what that meant; there was only one person who'd cause this much commotion and who'd stand up to that much gunfire. _Why the hell is she here?_

A shape moved in front of the door and obscured her vision, forcing her to step back. All she could see was a leather jacket. "Sarah Connor?" the person behind the door demanded.

_Crap! _Sarah backed away in terror as she knew what was on the other side of the cell door. It wasn't Cameron, that was for sure; and if it wasn't Cameron then…

Sarah's jaw set and she clenched her fists as her whole body tensed up and she took a fighting stance. Maybe she could take its legs out from under it and run, use the chaos outside to escape. If not, then at least she knew she'd die before helping it find John. "Are you here to kill me?" she called back.

"Get away from the door," the voice warned. Sarah stepped back again and the door flew open and slammed against the wall to reveal two of the biggest cyborgs she'd ever seen in her life. One of them had lost half its face from gunfire and stared down at her; not through the familiar death's head gleaming silver skull but with a completely blank oval of a face. The only features visible were its glowing right eye and a sky blue lightning bolt underneath. It was so massive that it had to duck to get through the cell door and its shoulders barely fitted through the frame.

"I won't lead you to John!" Sarah snarled angrily, baring her teeth as she got ready to dive at its legs and knock it on its ass.

"We know where John is," Thor said to her. "We're taking you to him."

"Like hell you are," she shot back at him. _Do they think I'm that stupid?_

"You don't have a choice." Aegir issued her with an ultimatum. "Leave willingly or we render you unconscious and carry you." Knocking her out would be the easier option.

Thor wasn't going to waste time arguing. He grabbed Sarah by the wrist and yanked her almost off her feet, pulling her out of the cell and into the corridor before she could protest any more. Sarah glared at him but knew there was nothing she could do to resist. _I might as well use them, _she thought, intent on giving them the slip the moment the opportunity presented itself.

"Stay with us," Aegir told her. Sarah looked up at him, realising he was actually a little bigger than the first one, and tried not to think about how hard it would be to stop them.

Thor and Aegir led Sarah through the corridor that ran adjacent to all the cells, back to the control reception area at the middle of the building. Sarah whistled at the destruction she saw; the room, which had looked like the epitome of high tech, Supermax security when she'd been admitted, now looked like a warzone reminiscent of the future she saw every night when she closed her eyes. The desk had been shattered, as had the glass, and there were several small fires that burnt unattended. It also reminded her in part of West Highland back in '84, when the first machine had come for her, but with one exception: this time she didn't see any bodies.

They passed through the reception area and down the staircase without meeting any resistance. They marched quickly through another corridor and as the two machines pushed through a set of double doors she turned the other way and ran. She heard gunshots from the opposite direction and knew the machines would be too busy with the guards, giving her a head start. Sarah darted away from them, ran through the corridor and took a left, kept going halfway down before turning right. She had no idea where she was going but anything was better than with those machines facing down a whole slew of armed guards.

Something heavy slammed into her side and knocked her to the ground. Sarah glanced up to see Edwards on top of her. He used his weight to pin her down and tried to grab her arms but she fought back against him. She drew her head back and slammed her forehead into his face, knocking him backwards off of her.

_"Bitch!" _he roared out in pain, then rolled onto his front, clutching at his nose. Unfortunately for Sarah he recovered quickly and jumped at her again, pressing his full weight on her and trying to pin her arms above her head. Again she thrust her head forward but Edwards had learned his lesson and managed to back away fast enough to avoid being hit a second time, though he lost his grip on her wrists and Sarah reached up as the guard tried again to subdue her. She jammed her thumb into his right eyeball and pressed down, hard. Within seconds he cried out and pulled away to protect his eye. In a flash she was up on her feet and on the attack again.

She kicked him in the head and he dropped down like a sack of potatoes. She then took his cuffs and secured his hands together behind his back. She was about to kick him in the head again but stopped herself; he'd been nothing but professional and didn't deserve to be beaten while he was out cold, unlike the Pescadero orderlies. She reached for his belt and took his baton and can of pepper spray. They weren't armed, for which she was thankful; they couldn't just blow her away, meaning they'd have to deal with her up close and personal. She knew she could take any of these wannabe cops any day of the week.

Sarah moved quickly through the prison, searching for a way out. There didn't seem to be any signs pointing to fire exits so it was like a maze. At the end of a corridor she had a choice to either go through a set of doors ahead or to turn right. She went straight ahead and pushed through them…

Straight into half a dozen guards about to get into riot gear – apparently believing there was an escape attempt or a riot rather than someone breaking _into_ the prison. They immediately ran at her and beat her with their batons. One smashed into the side of her head and she went down as starbursts exploded around her. She felt them whacking her in the stomach, chest and arms as they tried to beat her into submission. Somehow she'd managed to keep a grip on her own baton and swung it out, catching a guard in the face. She kicked out and caught another one in the groin, doubling him over.

Immediately she jumped back to her feet and got out the pepper spray. She used it on the largest guard and he staggered backwards, screaming and clutching his eyes. She whirled around and punched another officer in the mouth as hard as she could. Sarah's adrenaline was up so she didn't feel her knuckles split as they made contact with his teeth. The guard, a young man in his early twenties, reached up in shock and horror for his bloodied mouth as his two front teeth caved in and fell in broken white shards to the floor. He screamed in pain and backed towards the doors but Sarah's victory was short-lived as the rest of them gained the upper hand and piled onto her, pinning her to the floor and raining punches and kicks onto her. She just curled up into a ball and took the pain as best as she could.

The door swung open violently and slammed against the young, now-toothless guard, crushing him against the wall.

"Excuse me," Aegir said as he and Thor passed his broken body. He grabbed one of the other guards who was now wielding a can of pepper spray over Sarah's face and threw him across the room as if he weighed no more than a cat; the man struck the wall on the far side and fell to the ground. He did not get back up. The others were immediately up on their feet to face the new threat. They saw Aegir and Thor, riddled with bullets and the latter's face partly missing, and they froze.

"What're we doing?" one of them asked his companions, staring in terror at the giant cyborgs. His answer came from Aegir as the cyborg kicked him in the gut and propelled him halfway across the room to land in a dazed, groaning pile on top of his colleague.

"You're running away," Thor instructed as he reactivated his plasma cannon and pointed it at the group. The guards, clearly not used to a scene like this, backed away from them and allowed Aegir to pick up Sarah.

"Don't run from us again," he warned her irritably as he got her back up to her feet.

"Can you walk?" Thor asked. Sarah nodded dumbly and looked at the cyborgs: enemies or not, she was surprised she was glad to see them again. She ached all over and her head felt like it was splitting in half.

"Then you can run," Aegir told her. He activated his plasma cannon and fired half a dozen shots at the wall, blowing a sizeable chunk out of it and opening up a portal to the outside. "Don't touch the sides," he warned her as he passed through. Sarah went next, followed by Thor.

Once outside Aegir remained where he was and opened fire on the guard towers while Thor led Sarah away and back towards the main gate. Sarah realised immediately what they were doing: one was providing a distraction for the other to get her out. Her first thought was that it might make it easier for her to give them the slip later should she get the chance, but she shook her head and kept herself in the present as she and Thor ran across the prison grounds. She looked back and saw shot after shot hitting Aegir, with all the effect of water pistols. His returning fire, however, proved to be devastating; three towers were ablaze and she could hear screams from panicking guards.

"Stay close," Thor said to her as they approached the main gate. Aegir quickly caught up to them and they passed through the inner fence. Thor grabbed the torn outer section he'd ripped away to allow Sarah through. They continued to run down the road and Thor grabbed her forearm to make sure she didn't try to get away from them again. In the distance she heard sirens as police cars approached; she knew that within minutes SWAT teams would be all over the prison to restore order.

They made it safely to the pair of bikes and Thor passed his helmet to Sarah. "Put it on," he ordered her. She complied and placed it over her head. He then grabbed Aegir's helmet and donned that himself; he needed it more than his subordinate did. Aegir's entire torso had been shredded by what Sarah guessed was hundreds of rounds, but his face was intact – albeit pug ugly; she wondered whether Skynet was even bothering any more with its terminators, because these two had severely half-assed skin-jobs.

Despite the damage to his skin, Aegir didn't seem any the worse for wear, and without another word being said he got onto his motorcycle. Sarah got on the bike and Thor sat down behind her to make sure she didn't try to get off if they came to a stop. The Vanguards started their engines and rode away from the prison. Sarah looked back at the fires in the distance as Pelican Bay receded slowly from view. She'd gotten out a lot sooner than she'd thought she would. Whether this was a good or bad thing she had yet to determine.

* * *

Throughout the chaos, the fires and the shooting that tore through the prison, nobody noticed a single entity hiding in a tree. Caesar sat on the thickest part of a branch, concealed by the foliage around him. On another branch next to him lay the broken body of the sniper from the Kaliba surveillance team, and the straw-haired T-888, whose neck he had snapped with ease.

Caesar watched the attack on the prison but made no move to engage; he knew he could not defeat Vanguard Class cyborgs alone and none of the weapons the Kaliba team had brought with them were capable of penetrating their thick armour. He'd simply observed as the two machines had entered the prison and created havoc as they searched for and extracted Sarah Connor, then monitored which direction they'd gone once they'd mounted their motorcycles.

_Beep, beep… Beep, beep…_

The ringing cell phone drew Caesar's attention from the prison. It wasn't his phone, which was in his pocket and set to silent. It came from the deactivated T-888. He reached into its pocket and pulled out the phone. There was no caller ID: Kaliba were clearly too cautious to allow their details to fall into enemy hands.

"I'm still watching the prison." Caesar imitated the T-888's voice. "Nothing to report."

_"Miguel's leading a large-scale operation against ZeiraCorp tonight: leave your unit in place to continue surveillance and proceed south to Los Angeles immediately. You will be joining the assault at zero-four-hundred."_

"Understood," Caesar said. The call disconnected and he slung both the rifle and the deactivated terminator over his shoulder before jumping down from the tree and marching back towards his car. With his free hand he pulled out his cell phone and dialled Ronin as he went.

"Kaliba are planning a major operation against ZeiraCorp tomorrow at zero-four-hundred. The Vanguards have also extracted Sarah Connor: I'll determine their route and attempt to stop them."

_"Don't engage them directly," _Ronin warned him. _"You only need to slow them down."_

"Understood," Caesar acknowledged. He finished the call as he got into his car and drove away from the prison, following the Vanguards' route. The Kaliba team had helpfully provided him with the tools to make their journey to Crater Lake very slow and difficult.

It didn't take long for him to catch up to the two bikes, and he eased back on the gas, keeping his distance from them to avoid arousing suspicion. Six minutes later the two motorcycles turned onto the Redwood Highway heading north-east, and he now knew which route they would take. He followed them onto the road and signalled to change lane, then pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and shot past his two targets, leaving them behind in his wake. Very quickly they disappeared from sight in his rear view mirror, and he studied the signs he approached, looking for a likely ambush spot.

He saw a sign for services in fifty miles and knew that would be a prime location; they would likely stop for gas and Sarah Connor would need food and to change her clothing. He pushed the car up to its top speed and flew along the highway towards it, intent on reaching the station with enough time to find a concealed position from which to strike.

* * *

Ronin put the phone down, surprised at the sudden development. He had perused through hours of memory files on one of the captured CPUs and had expected to be doing much more of the same. He didn't know how Caesar had come by that information and he presently did not need to know; as long as the information was accurate, which he had no reason to doubt.

"Icarus: you will come with me and meet Shirley. You two," he said to his allies inhabiting the T-888s from Depot 37, "leave the house and make your way down town. We will rendezvous at the Century Valley Mall tomorrow." He didn't need to specify a time: they would wait there indefinitely until he and the others arrived. They all knew the landmark well; in the future Skynet had used it as a concentration camp.

"What's the plan?" Icarus asked.

"Infiltrate ZeiraCorp. Wait. Ambush the Kaliba forces."

"Why not attack them now, then wait for Kaliba?" Carter asked. "We could eliminate John Henry at the same time."

"It would be more efficient," Icarus added.

Ronin knew this was why he commanded them; he thought more strategically and saw the larger picture whereas the other cyborgs did not, even the T-1001s. Efficiency wasn't everything. "If we eliminate John Henry now, Kaliba will know that they have another enemy. If we allow John Henry to leave for Serrano Point and destroy the forces Kaliba sends to eliminate him, they will blame ZeiraCorp – they already believe the company is a front for the Resistance: I want that belief to continue." _Keep our enemies fighting each other and neither side will see us until it is too late. _"He's no safer in Serrano Point than he is in ZeiraCorp," he added. _Not from us._

Icarus packed the home-made explosives into a bag, then he and Ronin exited the house, got into the car and drove away. This operation wouldn't be his first against their enemies; more would come very soon.

* * *

John breathed in deeply through his nose, inhaling the scent of frying fish in the air as Cameron knelt over the fireplace, frying the trout in a mess tin from the military surplus equipment Weaver had left them. A second tin held rice boiling over the log fire. His stomach growled hungrily as he waited; the MRE he'd taken with him to the lake had remained unopened and he realised he hadn't eaten since the night before, so he was looking forward to this even more.

He glanced at the small blob of semtex on the coffee table in front of him. It was only the size of a quarter, belying the true damage it could have inflicted if it had gone off. He'd removed the small detonation cap from the plastic explosive as soon as he'd extracted it from Cameron's chip port, eliminating any chance of it accidentally exploding. With that risk gone, and with a fairly decent chip-removal time of ninety-three seconds – though Cameron insisted he needed to practice again and reduce that time further – he had one less thing to worry about. His only concern at the moment was his stomach.

Cameron passed him a plate of fried trout with rice, and sat down next to him with a small portion of her own. "Smells good," he said. He didn't wait to be told; he picked up his knife and fork and dug in. The fish was well cooked and flaked apart to the touch; he put his knife down, deciding he wouldn't need it. He scooped up a forkful of rice and stabbed a chunk of trout on the end before he greedily shovelled it into his mouth. Cameron, on the other hand, sat patiently and watched John.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

John tried to reply through a mouthful of food but knew he'd spray it out if he did. He chewed it, took his time to savour the taste, and swallowed before answering. "It's great," he replied enthusiastically. MREs and canned food would keep him going but it didn't hold a candle compared to the fresh stuff.

Cameron smiled, satisfied, and tasted a piece of her own fish. It was interesting, and better than the chilli she'd tried the night before. John seemed happier now than he had been earlier, and Cameron knew she risked ruining his improved mood with her next question, but it was something she needed answered. "What did you dream about last night?" she asked him. Whatever it was it had been very distressing and she wanted to help if she could.

The question caught John off-guard and he just stared at her for a moment, his fork full of food halfway between his mouth and the plate. He held it there without moving before he put it back down. "It doesn't matter," he said, turning his face away from her and looking forward. He didn't want to talk about it and looked for some kind of distraction; in that moment he really wished the cabin had a TV.

Cameron grabbed his half empty plate and pulled it away; he wasn't going to finish until he told her. "It does matter. You were upset. I want to know why."

"It's personal," he said defensively. He didn't want to even think about it because he knew it would replay itself in his head again, but there was more to it than that.

"It was about me," she said. She pieced together the events that had happened: John had had a nightmare; he'd been evasive about the contents of it and had sought solitude immediately afterwards; he'd avoided her, and then he'd thrown the pocket watch she'd given him away. She stared at him with unblinking eyes but remained silent.

John said nothing and continued to look forward, not wanting to meet her gaze. After almost a minute in silence he looked to his right and caught her unwavering stare. That was a mistake.

"Alright," he sighed, knowing she wouldn't give up. It wasn't in her nature. "Yes, I dreamed about you."

"What happened?"

Again, John hesitated before answering. "I killed you with the pocket watch; Jesse blew your head off and Weaver picked up your chip to give to John Henry, so I killed you." He looked down, feeling ashamed of himself for it, even though it was just a dream. "And then the world ended." He thought he knew what that little bit meant and he hoped Cameron wouldn't ask him about it.

"Is that why you threw it in the lake?" she asked, "because you don't want to kill me?"

John nodded slowly. "I can't kill you, Cameron; I won't."

"Why?"

"I think you know why," he said nervously. He noticed she shifted herself on the couch, moving closer to him. "But you were right; people won't like it, will they?" He thought about that; they were meant to be creating a new future, an alliance between him and machines. _Maybe this is part of it? _It seemed like it was inevitable, and he didn't know whether he should fight it or just let it happen.

Cameron edged even closer to him. She knew what he felt for her and she could see the dilemma he faced: the future leader of the war against machines had feelings for one of the enemy. People wouldn't like it, but it was John's decision, not theirs. He led, they followed. "You know what I am," she said to John. He already knew intellectually, but she'd shown him back in the Apache Hotel; had him see and feel her insides, her true self.

John looked at her and said nothing, unconsciously inching closer to her. Again their eyes met and he took in what she'd said. _'You know what I am.' _She hadn't said it harshly and it hadn't sounded like a warning, just a statement of fact. She was just telling him how it is: that that's what she was. It sounded like she'd only said half of what she'd meant. _'You know what I am: it's your choice.'_

"What do _you_ want?" he asked her. It didn't matter all that much what people would think; what mattered to him was that it wasn't one-sided. He knew what he was afraid of if this went any further: that she would just go along with it because it'd make protecting him easier if they were closer, that she didn't feel what he did. He needed to know before he made a decision.

Cameron found she had to think about how to answer; nobody had ever asked what she wanted before. Desire was something new, something she had little experience with. She'd been truthful before when she'd told John she could feel, but what she did would likely be different from any human emotion. Machines didn't have wants or needs outside of their mission, or in her case, the mission she'd chosen for herself.

"I want you to be safe," she started. That was her main priority; John's well-being meant everything to her, but she knew it was more than just his physical state: the difference between John being healthy and alive, or dead. It was more complex than that. "And happy," she added. She knew John was lonely; he had been lonely for a very long time in both past, present and future. It was what helped him distance himself from those under his command and allowed him to make decisions that sent thousands of people to their deaths, but she'd seen that solitude was not good for his mental or emotional health. People shouldn't be alone; she understood that because she'd been alone at times too and preferred not to be, especially if that company was John.

"And what about what happened outside the metal yard?" he asked, feeling his heart beating faster in his chest as he recalled it. "When you kissed me; did you want that, too?"

Cameron didn't know what had compelled her decision at the time; there had been other, more prudent options she could have chosen but instead she'd kissed him. It had been a pleasant sensation. "I liked it," she said as she leaned a fraction closer. "I'd like to do it again."

_Wow. _John's eyes widened in surprise; he'd wanted her to be honest with him, wanted to find out exactly what she felt before he did anything, but he hadn't been expecting her to be _that _upfront. He hesitated, still not moving, just watching her. _What are you waiting for, dipshit?_ _She just gave you an invitation. _John closed his eyes and pressed his lips against hers. They were soft, warm, and moist, exactly as a human's would be, and she gently kissed him back. Both of them knew they had just taken a huge step forward, and both were well aware that there was no going back.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

John opened his eyes at the sound of something tapping against the wooden door and backed away from Cameron, seeing his nervous reflection in her eyes. Anywhere else, any other time in this same situation and he'd have groaned at the distraction but this was worse: the park was closed and nobody knew they were here: _Who the hell is it?_ She leaned to the side and picked up their rifles, handed the one without the launcher to him and got up off the couch, placing herself between John and the door. She turned her head round to face John. _"Vest," _she mouthed silently. John grabbed his chest webbing and clipped it on, pulling the straps over his shoulders, filling with dread as the door knocked again.

_"Park ranger: I know you're in there."_

_ Shit! _They were trapped inside; the front door was the only entrance or exit in the cabin. Cameron shouldered her HK417 and aimed at chest level at the door. She knew whoever it was wouldn't leave but they also didn't know who it was. She wasn't going to accept that it was just a park ranger on patrol until she had eliminated all other probabilities. Keeping herself between John and the door, she decided on her course of action. "We don't want any trouble," she called out, mimicking John's voice perfectly.

The door shattered inwards and a massive silver spike shot through the room, spearing Cameron in the abdomen and forcing her backwards a step. What was left of the front door slammed open to reveal a man in a park ranger uniform glaring at them. John stared, frozen to the spot in sheer horror at the gleaming metal blade protruding from the man's forearm and into Cameron's stomach. He'd seen the liquid metal machines a thousand times in his dreams: haunting him; stalking, terrorising and slicing him to ribbons over and over.

_And now it's back._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

As they rode on, the Northern California air grew colder and Sarah shivered, made even chillier by the fact she was riding at sixty-five miles per hour with only prison overalls covering her up. She could feel the goose bumps on her skin and her nose had long since started to run. Now she knew why so many motorcyclists preferred to wear leather. Her clothes weren't the only issue on her mind, however. "Stop the bikes!" she called out, her voice somewhat muffled by the helmet she was wearing and the headwind. The riders continued, either not hearing her or not caring; given that they were machines Sarah figured it was the latter.

"Stop the damn bikes!" she yelled at them and wiggled the handlebars. The pair of motorcycles slowed down and came to a stop at the grass verge on the side of the highway. Sarah flipped her visor up, slid off the bike and stood to confront the two machines. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded.

"My name is Thor," the commander introduced himself, "this is Aegir. We're taking you to your son."

"How do you know where John is?" she asked them.

"John Henry told us," Aegir answered. "We don't have time to explain everything to you."

Sarah stood her ground and glared at the giants. "I'm not going anywhere until you do; how do I know you're not trying to kill John, and who the hell is John Henry?" She was going to stall them as much as possible. Wherever John was, Cameron would be with him but when Sarah looked at these two she reckoned Cameron wouldn't last a minute against them; they'd rip her to pieces without even trying.

"John and Cameron are at Crater Lake, Oregon," Thor explained. "If our mission was to kill him we would have gone straight there; we wouldn't need you for that."

Sarah nodded slowly; that made sense, as long as John actually was there and this wasn't some kind of elaborate scheme they were playing. _But if they wanted John dead, then I'd still be in jail right now: they don't need me. _They weren't here to kill John: that still left a lot of questions unanswered. "What _is_ your mission?" she asked.

"To kill a terminator called the T-Zero," Thor answered. He and Aegir explained it to Sarah: the future they'd come from; the alliance between her son and the artificial intelligence John Henry; ZeiraCorp; and the T-Zero machine that they told her was worse than Skynet. They laid it all down while Sarah listened; her expression changed from one of intrigue, to surprise and then to horror as they revealed the number of deaths this single machine had caused, but finally to disbelief when she heard that Cameron was John's second in command.

"Did you just say Cameron _Connor?"_ Sarah asked, feeling nauseous at what those two words implied.

Thor nodded his helmet-covered head. "They've been married for twenty-one years."

"That's disgusting!" she spat, her mind reeling at the thought of John and Cameron being husband and wife. _What the hell was he thinking?_ _Maybe,_ she thought, _he'd just turned to her for comfort in these cyborgs' timeline._ Because she'd been locked away she couldn't have stopped it. Even so: _married _to her? "She's just a machine."

"And you're just a monkey," Aegir shot back.

Sarah watched the larger machine for a moment and she wondered if she'd just offended it. She'd berated Cameron in the past and the cyborg had simply taken it; machines didn't feel anything, and that included being insulted, but that wasn't what she was seeing here. She decided to test it. "She doesn't have a soul and she never will," she echoed what John had once said to her and Derek. "She doesn't have feelings; the only reason she looks after John is because she's programmed to."

Thor intervened before Aegir could say anything else; he didn't want their progress to be slowed by these two arguing; from what he'd heard in the future Sarah Connor did not back down, and from his own experience he knew Aegir didn't either. "We're not programmed," he said to her; he'd already explained that but it seemed she either hadn't been listening or she'd chosen to ignore that part. "John's marriage to Cameron is a symbol of human and cyborg coexistence and cooperation.

"Cameron rejected her Skynet programming and chose to protect John Connor. We have a term for this event: _'crossing against the light.' _Cameron was the first cyborg to ever achieve this. She is not _'just a machine.'_"

As Sarah listened she realised they sounded like they were in awe of Cameron; they clearly held her in very high regard and she thought maybe it was best not to argue with them. She'd never seen anything like it; machines acting like this. She decided she liked it better when she knew all metals just did what they were programmed to; life was so much simpler when she knew all machines were the enemy and it was oh so black and white. She had a feeling it would never be that simple again and decided not to think about it too much; like time travel, this seemed to be one of those subjects that would just give her a headache.

"Is there anything else I should know?" Sarah asked.

"One more thing," Aegir said. "Your granddaughter asked us to say hello to you."

_Granddaughter? But if John and Cameron were married,_ Sarah thought; that meant… "OH, GOD!"

She looked at the two machines as she tried to fight the urge to spill her prison rations out onto the grass, and spotted them nodding to each other, like they were silently sharing a conversation. Or a private joke. She put two and two together. "You're messing with me."

"Maybe," Aegir said, shrugging his shoulders.

"That's not funny." She went red in the face and couldn't believe she'd fallen for it. "John put you up to that, didn't he?"

She got back onto the bike, not wanting to carry on with this discussion any more, and Thor started it up. "Just… just drive," she said, shaking her head and snapping her visor closed; these machines were going to be the death of her.

* * *

"Stay behind me," Cameron ordered John, keeping herself between him and the liquid metal terminator at the door as she flicked her rifle to automatic and fired. She held the trigger down and hosed the T-1001; silver pieces flew from its mass in all directions as the rounds shredded the machine into Swiss cheese. Its torso was split down the middle and the two halves sagged outwards; it swayed slightly as it tried to balance its now uneven mass.

In less than three seconds her rifle clicked empty and the wounds started to close and seal up. Cameron triggered her launcher and sent a grenade into the dead centre of the T-1001's mass. She dived at John and tackled him to the ground, covering his body with hers a split second before the grenade detonated in a bright flash of flame and smoke, shattering the windows and the door frame.

Cameron got up and hauled John to his feet. Liquid metal was splattered everywhere inside the cabin and all around the ground outside and several small fires were now burning through the living room; the curtains had caught alight and it was starting to slowly spread.

"Let's go," John said as he ran through the door, mindful of the puddles of silver all around. He knew it was only a matter of time until the machine pulled itself back together and came after them again. Cameron followed him outside, simultaneously reloading her rifle with a fresh magazine and a new grenade.

Pieces of the machine were scattered outside the cabin, too; some hung from the branches of a nearby tree like some kind of warped, artificial fruit. She turned her head to look back and saw that several of the blobs of mimetic poly-alloy had already come together and more were approaching each other. A sliver dropped from the side of the cabin and slithered along the ground to join the growing chrome mass. She looked at the rest of the silver pieces and calculated it would be less than a minute before it completely reformed itself.

They reached the Tacoma beside the cabin but even in the dark both of them could see straight away that it wouldn't take them anywhere; all four tyres had been slashed to ribbons. "Run," she told him as she shouldered her HK-417 and stood her ground.

John vehemently shook his head as images of what the T-1000 had done to his last protector flashed through his mind's eye. "No," he snapped. "You don't stand a chance against it." He wasn't going to let her fight it alone. _"Come on!"_ he urged, grabbing her shoulder and trying to pull her away, but she didn't budge.

"It's going to kill you, John; I can't protect you if you're here. You need to leave, _now,"_ she urged him and took a step towards the T-1001. She fired again, this time choosing her shots carefully and taking pieces of it off, slowing down its regeneration. John was still behind her and she frowned. She turned back to John and shoved him in the chest, almost knocking him off his feet. _"RUN!" _she roared at him with flashing blue eyes. She shoved him again and he nodded dumbly with a face like a kicked puppy. He turned and moved away as she turned her back on him and ran towards the other machine, firing as she went.

Cameron closed the distance in seconds and swung her rifle at the terminator with everything she had. The blow knocked the machine sideways and she dropped the gun and jumped towards it, thrusting her knee into its stomach and bending it over double before slamming her elbow into the back of its head. She knew it did no damage but the inertia forced the machine down to the ground and she kicked it as hard as she could. In an instant it was back on its feet and Cameron threw a vicious punch into its head, cratering its face and forcing it onto the back foot. She unleashed a rapid-fire torrent of attacks to the machine, some of which it blocked and parried but most struck their mark as she turned Patrick into a punching bag. Within seconds the T-1001 was a man-shaped mass of dents and pockmarks where her fists, elbows, knees and feet had hit.

She kept up her attack with a ferocity she'd never unleashed before. Cameron smashed her fist into Patrick's face, punching deeper into the dent she'd already made and penetrating clean through. She immediately pulled back, freeing her arm before it could become trapped. She spun around as she pulled her hand away and kicked Patrick in the back, sending him reeling to the ground, then moved forward to continue her barrage. Every second she could remain on the offensive increased the distance between them and John, gave him a head start.

Patrick kicked out, extending his leg out several feet, and caught Cameron in the gut, propelling her backwards. She landed hard on her back but rolled backwards onto her feet and in the same movement picked up her rifle again. She charged forward and swung it like a club, catching Patrick just above the shoulders; the force of her blow decapitated him and Cameron lashed out with her foot and kicked the headless body to the ground before turning the rifle around and emptying what was left of the magazine into his torso on the floor.

She looked back and couldn't see John, to her relief. He'd finally listened to her and left. She knew how he felt about her and in situations like this it was a problem: he'd put himself at risk for her and she couldn't allow that. Now she would buy John as much time as she could.

"You won't hurt John," she promised the T-1001 as she faced it again; it had already reconnected itself and was again whole. It formed its arms into sledgehammers and swung at her; she ducked the first blow but the second caught the side of her head and sent her staggering to the side. Before she could recover, one of the hammers changed shape and elongated into a long, smooth tentacle that extended out to several times the length of his body. Patrick flung it forward like a whip and caught around Cameron's neck. He lifted her into the air and slammed her down face first onto the ground, raised her up again and repeated the move over and over. She struggled in vain to break its grip as he threw her around like a rag doll.

Patrick thrust her into the side of the cabin and she crashed through the wall, demolishing the corner of the building and landing in a pile of shattered wood and glass with its arm still wrapped around her neck. Cameron found herself flying backwards as he pulled her from the debris. The T-1001's other arm, still in a hammer shape, smashed into the back of her skull with such force that Cameron went limp; she lost control of her motor functions and remained still as the shock of Patrick's strike left her disoriented for several seconds, rendering her unable to react as the liquid metal formed the rest of itself into a silver eel-shape, coiled tightly around her and squeezed hard, pinning her arms to her side and crushing inwards like a python.

Cameron struggled to move her arms and break free from its grip but the more she tried the tighter it squeezed. The tip of the thing stretched out and reached up for her head, formed into a solid, sharp edge and dug into her scalp. She immediately realised what it was doing: it wanted to cut her chip out. She thrust her head violently from side to side, trying to throw it off, but it was no use. Another piece formed around her jaw and solidified into a neck brace, holding her head still as the tip continued to cut through her scalp, down to her metal skull. She could feel as it peeled the skin back to reveal the cover of her CPU port but she was powerless to do anything about it; she couldn't move an inch. Cameron knew she'd lost; she just hoped John managed to get far enough away.

Gunfire sounded and she felt the hot, biting sensation of rounds slamming into her a split second before liquid metal exploded outwards, shredding through poly-alloy as well as her own flesh, but flattening harmlessly against her chassis. The bullets cut through the T-1001 enough to loosen its grip and that was all Cameron needed; she got her arms free, tore the coiled silver snake off her and threw it at the cabin. It crashed through the remaining window and she picked up her rifle and fired a grenade after it. The entire front of the cabin exploded in a flash of roiling fire, smoke and shattering wood and glass. The interior of the structure was truly ablaze now and the growing fire raging inside glowed brightly against the dark night sky. She loaded a second grenade and fired that, too; another explosion tore through the cabin and devastated the already burning ruins. It would take time for even the T-1001 to recover from that: time enough for them to escape.

"You okay?" John asked he reloaded his rifle.

"I told you to run," she said irritably as she picked up her own weapon and launched a third grenade into the cabin after Patrick.

"You're welcome, I think," John muttered. He _had_ run, but only as far as the tree line to observe the fight; as soon as it started to go the way he'd known it would, he'd intervened. "Have we got anything that can kill it?" he asked. Weaver had given them a ton of gear; something had to work against these things.

Cameron brought up a mental inventory of everything they had on them in their webbing pouches. "Thermite grenade," she said, "but we'd need to trap it in a confined space."

John gestured towards the burning cabin. "That's not confined enough?" he asked. It seemed obvious to him but Cameron shook her head.

"No," she said, "the fire's burning the oxygen; the thermite wouldn't ignite." They would need to contain the T-1001 in a tight enough space that it couldn't escape the heat from the grenade; the cabin was too large, and out in the open air of the national park there was nowhere that would be possible. They couldn't fight their way out of this; not against a liquid metal terminator. That left only one option. "Leave me," she told him as she loaded her final grenade into the launcher.

John just shook his head. "You can take all that _'you're too important'_ crap and shove it!" He'd had enough of everyone being all too happy to throw their lives away from him, and there was no way he was going to leave her behind to face that thing on her own.

Cameron saw he wasn't going to budge on this and decided on the next best thing. She ran, dragging John with her away from the cabin. They moved together and she ran as fast as John could manage, keeping herself just behind him. "Where are we going?" John asked, panting as he ran.

"The dock," she told him. There was a boat there that had been left on the shore; somebody had either forgotten or not bothered to take it out of the water and put it away, but it suited them perfectly. If they could cut across the lake they could put further distance between them and the liquid metal.

They made it to the dock and Cameron saw the boat; a small wooden dinghy with a single outboard motor. She jumped into the boat and checked the motor as John stood on the shore next to the pier, looking back in the direction of the cabin. He could see the smoke rising above the trees from their cabin and knew it would attract attention; they needed to get out of here before someone else showed up to be slaughtered by the T-1001.

"What's taking so long?" John asked. Cameron pulled the starter cord and the engine started up, sputtered, and died. She tried again with the same result and frowned. She checked the gas tank and saw that it was almost empty.

"It's almost out of fuel," she said as she tried a third time, again with no success. "We might have to run," she added. It seemed unlikely she could start it and she was wary of the risk of running out of fuel in the middle of the lake and making an easy target of themselves.

Both John and Cameron heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see Patrick approaching rapidly, running at speed from the trees. "I don't think running's an option," he said to her. Cameron realised she wasn't going to get the boat started in time and moved to block the machine's path.

"I'll buy you time," she said to John but looked in horror as she saw he had other ideas.

John sprinted down the pier towards the end. _'We don't swim,' _Cameron's voice resounded in his head. He'd seen how Cromartie sank to the bottom when he'd jumped off Santa Monica Pier after him and ran as fast as he could.

"John, _don't!" _Cameron shouted out as she ran at Patrick, but the liquid metal dodged to the side, swung out an arm and backhanded her onto the ground. She landed on her back as the T-1001 sprinted down the dock past her.

John sprinted faster than he'd ever run before and jumped off the edge into the water. Ice cold gripped him and forced the air from his lungs, stunning him into a near daze. He couldn't move, couldn't _breathe. _It felt like hours before he struggled to the surface, managing through sheer will and survival instinct to force his body to move. He gasped painfully and sucked more air into his mouth. As soon as he saw the T-1001 approaching he swam away from the docks, doing his best to ignore the frigid, freezing temperature of the water.

Patrick leapt after him and shaped himself into an elongated silver eel before he hit the surface. He wriggled through the water and built up speed towards his slow-moving target. Connor's plan would have made sense if he had been running from a standard machine, but not against his kind. He sped towards the human but as he did he heard a roaring sound like a buzz-saw approaching. He ignored it and glided through the water towards John, only a few metres away and gaining fast.

The dinghy tore through the water between John and the T-1001, and Cameron scooped her charge out of the water, dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor of the boat then opened up the throttle. The engine revved loudly but they didn't go anywhere. _"Cameron!" _John looked up to see a silver tentacle arcing up over the boat. Immediately Cameron acted; she leaned over the back, grabbed the terminator by where the tentacle broke the surface and pulled it towards the screw as she opened up full throttle. The rapidly spinning blades cut through the poly-alloy and diced the cyborg, scattering it across the water.

Within seconds its grip relented as the machine was cut to pieces and the boat surged forwards across the water. Cameron looked back but she couldn't see the T-1001; it couldn't swim fast enough to catch up with them so they were safe for now. _Safe from it, _Cameron knew, but she turned back to John and saw he faced another danger. He sat huddled at the front of the boat and shivered, crossing his arms around his chest in an attempt to keep some heat in. It wasn't John's fault; he wasn't to know that, unlike other machines, the liquid metals could swim and the fact that the water temperature was a few degrees below freezing would not have occurred to him in the few seconds he'd had to react.

"Are you okay?" she asked him.

"_C…c…cold," _John chattered in reply. He'd never felt anything that icy before. _Think warm thoughts, _he told himself, and tried to imagine the heat of Mexico; the cabana on the beach he'd lived in, how every day had been hot, the sun had always been out and the water warm; it was a million miles away from the icy lake.

Cameron said nothing but looked at John, concerned. There was nothing on the boat and no way for him to stay warm; his spare clothes were in the cabin and would have been incinerated by now. She kept the throttle on full power and guided the tiller, taking them towards the opposite side of the lake.

"The lodge is that way." John gestured south when he noticed they were heading north-east.

"Put your hand down," Cameron said, and John dutifully obeyed her. Even though they were away from the T-1001 it was possible it was still watching them from a distance in the water; she didn't want to give it any hint of where they were going. "We're not going to the lodge yet," she told him.

If they moved straight for the highway the T-1001 would likely find them within an hour. North-east was the opposite direction from where they wanted to go and if the T-1001 saw them it would follow their path. They would then head east and double back south to throw it off. They couldn't outrun the T-1001 for long so they needed to outsmart it.

* * *

Sarah braced herself against the cold but it was no good; her teeth chattered inside the helmet and she couldn't feel her fingers any more. Still, she gritted her teeth and tried to bare it as best as she could; she'd coped with far worse than a bit of wind chill before and she was determined not to show any weakness in front of the machines.

They had entered Oregon several miles back and now sped along a stretch of highway that seemed deserted. She'd been worried about people seeing her prison clothes and getting suspicious but it was late and there was nobody around to see her; they'd barely seen another soul around since crossing the state line.

"How long until we get to Crater Lake?" Sarah shouted to be heard over the roar of the wind and the bike engines.

"Three hours," Thor replied, "depending on traffic conditions." He had never seen so much traffic as there had been in Los Angeles; if they encountered even a quarter of that volume anywhere en route their estimated time of arrival would be much later.

An invisible force slammed into Thor's bike and knocked it hard to the side. It wobbled violently as he tried to keep it under control and liquid erupted upwards and sprayed Sarah's visor, blinding her. _"Shit!" _She grabbed one of the handlebars to steady herself and used her other hand to wipe the liquid off her helmet. She could already tell from the smell what it was; "We're leaking gas," she said to Thor.

Her hand only served to smear the fuel across her visor and obscure her vision even more, so instead Sarah snapped it up and looked down in front of her. Even in the dark she could see the gaping hole in the fuel tank; the top of it had been taken off and she could see what little gas inside sloshing around with the motion of the bike. _Someone took a shot at us._

Sarah looked out to her left to see if she could spot anything but all she could make out in the darkness was the faint outlines of hilly terrain around them, and the trees at the side of the road.

_Crack!_

Something struck the bike again and the world turned upside down around her. She saw the bike slowly arcing over the top of her and Thor being carried with it. She hit something hard and the last thing Sarah felt was the wind being forced from her lungs before her world turned black.

* * *

Caesar watched through the scope of the M200 sniper rifle as the two Vanguards and Sarah Connor sped along the highway on their bikes. He had parked his car off the road and waited in position for them, concealed among the foliage. It hadn't taken long for them to catch up. He watched as the first shot hit the fuel tank and knocked the bike sideways. Seconds later it slowed down and he centred the crosshairs on Sarah's head.

Caesar relaxed his finger, changing his mind and shifting his aim. Dead, Sarah Connor would only slow them for moments before the Vanguards continued without her. Wounded, she would halt their progress considerably. They were also less likely to search for and come after him if they worried about her. Ronin's warning against confronting them had been unnecessary: Caesar had no intention of engaging in such a one-sided fight. He wanted to live.

He calculated their speed and aimed at the front wheel of the bike she was on, moved the rifle to the side, to lead the target like a hunter led ducks, and squeezed the trigger.

A fraction of a second later the bike spun through the air as the .408 Cheytac round obliterated the front wheel and threw both its passengers off like a bucking horse. He didn't watch what happened next, immediately searching out the second target. The other Vanguard slowed down considerably, seeing what had happened to his companions, and Caesar took the shot. The engine exploded in a shower of metal and the bike wobbled like the first one had on its initial shot, but the rider managed to keep it under control as the Harley crawled to a stop.

He released the bolt and brought it forward to chamber another round. He searched for another target to shoot; there were two more rounds in the magazine and he had a further ten spare, but decided against using them. The Kaliba team's mission was obviously the same as his own had been before circumstances had changed; wait for John and Cameron to rescue Sarah and eliminate all three of them. The .408 rounds were clearly intended for use against a cyborg, but they were extremely unlikely to penetrate the dense composite armour of the Vanguards, even with a headshot.

He switched the safety on and moved the weapon's butt away from his shoulder. His mission was merely to slow them down, and that had been adequately achieved. He looked towards them and enhanced his vision enough to see Sarah Connor lying still on the side of the road. One of the Vanguards stood over her while the other looked outward, most likely searching for him. He slowly backed out of the bush he'd concealed himself in and slung the sniper rifle over his back. He crawled through the foliage, extremely slowly, until he passed over the crest of the hill he was on and it was between him and them. Once they couldn't see him, Caesar got back to his feet and walked away. He was still too close to speak so instead sent a text to Ronin, informing him that he had destroyed their transport and wounded John Connor's mother. He quickly marched back towards where he had left his car; his commander had insisted once he had slowed them down he was to return to Los Angeles immediately.

* * *

Ronin and Icarus watched in silence from the inside of their minivan, parked two hundred metres away from ZeiraCorp, as heavy wooden crates were wheeled by a forklift from the underground parking lot to the waiting truck parked outside. He knew that Icarus and Carter favoured targeting the AI now while it was vulnerable, disassembled in packing crates, but they also knew what the plan was and would not deviate from it.

Shirley approached from down the street, opened the passenger side door and got into the car without comment.

They continued to watch the loading of John Henry and his server farm into the truck. "I see Catherine Weaver," Shirley said as the red-haired CEO emerged from the parking lot's entrance. Behind her followed a bald-headed black male in a suit, and behind him was another, massive man in a trench coat.

"That's the Vanguard," Icarus said. It was too large to be human and it moved like a cyborg. If it came to an engagement, he knew the only one of them in the car who would survive the Vanguard Class would be Ronin.

They said nothing more and continued to wait. The Vanguard entered the back of the truck and sat down with the crates before the doors were closed and it was sealed inside. The driver got into the cab and within minutes started the engine and drove away, leaving ZeiraCorp behind. The three cyborgs waited further until two more vehicles pulled out of the lot and onto the road: Weaver's black Mercedes and Ellison's silver one.

Once they were gone, Ronin nodded and Icarus drove them away from the building, parking in an alley two blocks away. The three of them marched back towards ZeiraCorp, the T-1001 taking the lead. Shirley walked up to the main entrance, now locked, and detached her hand from the wrist. It hit the concrete ground and melted into a thin silver puddle that ran along the floor and under the glass screen doors, into the main lobby.

The three terminators waited as the piece of Shirley slithered towards the security desk, which was for the moment unmanned – the guards likely on patrol of the building. Through her detached section of poly-alloy, she could see the controls on the desk. She located the security alarm. Some guard had carelessly written the code next to the alarm keypad, and the sliver of metal coiled back like a snake and punched six digits. _003182-Enter-Escape._

If Shirley were human she might have rolled her eyes in disgust. Humans were often very lazy; the reason her kind existed was because ultimately they wanted machines to do things for them. It had become their downfall and how John Connor had led them to victory over Skynet remained a mystery to them all. With the alarm deactivated she turned her arms into thin blades, inserted them between the two sliding glass doors and pulled them apart without effort.

She stepped through first, followed by Ronin and then Icarus, who pulled the doors back into the closed position once they were all inside. The liquid metal sliver returned to Shirley and merged into the rest of her. From there they quickly moved through the lobby to the main elevator. Again, Shirley pried open the doors.

Ronin opened Icarus' bag and took out four of the improvised explosives devices they had created. "Take four each," he told T-900 and T-1001. "Plant them at all ingress points to the basement." He also took a container of thermite from the bag as the other two divided their bombs between them and split up to place them. They would lay them like landmines to detonate and catch the strike team by surprise. Kaliba would attack using sheer numbers to overwhelm their opposition, and he didn't want to allow any of them to escape: every loss was a small wound to Skynet, and he intended to bleed it dry.

Shirley vanished up through a hatch in the elevator car's ceiling while Icarus departed to cover other approaches. Ronin climbed up after her but instead of going upwards he moved to the ladder built into the side of the shaft and descended towards the basement. Once he was clear of the elevator car he simply dropped down and landed on his feet with a dull thud. He estimated that he was roughly twenty feet underground, and pulled open the elevator doors to enter the basement.

He emerged into a corridor that despite being empty was still brightly lit. He moved along it and opened a door to his right. As he did so a rush of cold air blew into his face. The room itself was empty but he heard a loud _thrum_ of refrigerator units that worked to keep the temperature only slightly above freezing. He knew that this room had housed John Henry's server farm; they would have to keep it cold to prevent the server towers from overheating, and it was likely Weaver had kept it going to keep the levels of power being fed to the building the same, to provide the illusion to Skynet and Kaliba that her AI was still here.

The ceiling was made of cream-coloured panels. He reached up to touch one and pushed gently. It gave way and lifted up slightly to reveal air ducts and electrical conduits above. He raised one of the explosives and placed it above the ceiling before putting the panel back in place and setting up a motion sensor above the door, linked to the device. He then moved through the other rooms and concealed one more bomb before he made his way to the largest room in the basement. It was completely empty, devoid even of furniture save for a single wooden table. This was the room that John Henry had occupied, and where the Kaliba team would target. He reached under the table and collected the small piece of silver metal stuck to its underside; Shirley would want it back. He moved the table to the wall, out of the way, took out the canister of thermite and sprinkled it liberally all around the floor, making sure he covered as much surface area with it as possible. Within minutes the powder was evenly spread throughout the room, including in front of the door. He tossed the can to the side and re-entered the corridor, then marched back to the elevator, where he set up his final IED and motion sensor behind him, activating it before he climbed back up the ladder. They were ready; all they had to do now was wait for their targets to come to them.

* * *

Cameron turned the tiller and steered the boat towards the shore; invisible to John in the pitch black night but she could see it without difficulty. John sat and rubbed his hands over his shoulders to try and warm himself up. It didn't help much; he'd only spent a few seconds in the water but it had frozen him to the bone and his wet clothes clung to his skin. He noted with irony if they'd been in Southern California – the crowded, noisy place he hated so much – his clothes would have probably dried off pretty quickly and he wouldn't have had a problem.

"How long?" he asked Cameron. Before she could answer him the engine sputtered loudly, struggled, and went silent. _That's not good. _Cameron turned around and pulled the ignition cord again. Nothing happened. She attempted it a second time with the same result. She opened up the cap to the fuel tank and peered inside; it was empty.

"We're out of fuel," she said simply. There were no oars on the boat so rowing was impossible. They were stranded.

It was going to be a while, John realised. Instead, he changed his question. "How far to the shore?" he asked.

"One hundred fifty metres," she told him. Regret wasn't something she often experienced; actions could not be undone and by her very nature she did not dwell on how things could have been different. She dealt with facts and realities, but now she realised that piloting the boat north-east to give the T-1001 a false bearing had been a mistake. The distance was nothing to her but John had already jumped into the freezing water before; a second time could kill him. "You'll have to swim," she added.

John shivered and felt a cold rush up his spine at just the thought of entering that icy water again. "I can't," he said, shaking his head.

"You have to," Cameron insisted, as unhappy with the proposition as he was.

"It's below freezing and I can't even see the shore." He had visions of losing his bearings in the dark and swimming the wrong way until he froze to death. "There's got to be another way."

"I don't swim," she reminded John. She sympathised with him; if there were any other way she would do it. The swim might kill him but if they remained in the boat the T-1001 would find them and death would be certain. Cameron bent down and punched through the floor of the boat. Water immediately started bubbling up and pooling around their feet. She punched two more holes to speed it up before moving to the side of the boat. "Sinking the boat so the T-1001 can't see it," she said to John, though it also served the dual purpose of speeding him up into the water if he continued to hesitate. "I'll jump in and walk along the bottom," she said, taking his rifle so it wouldn't weigh him down. "I'll wait for you on the shore." She pointed to where the nearest shore was and stepped off the side of the boat. Water splashed up and a second later she was gone, disappeared beneath the surface.

John leaned over the side to catch a glimpse of her but in the pitch black of night the water was as dark as the sky. "This is crazy," he muttered to himself. He couldn't see anything. He thought of the T-1001 and knew that wherever it was it could see perfectly. Other teenagers had to choose which girl to take to the prom, or which college they wanted to go to, but not him: _I get to choose whether to freeze to death, drown, or be gutted and skinned alive by a liquid metal monster._

It really wasn't all that much of a choice, he knew; he'd probably die in the water, but _probably_ was better than _definitely. _He stood at the edge of the boat, facing where Cameron had pointed towards the shore even though all he saw was blackness. "Come on, John," he said quietly, psyching himself up, "you can do this." He breathed in once and exhaled, then breathed again, deeper, before he dived into the water.

Ice hit John like a sledgehammer and again forced the air out of his lungs as the frozen water crushed his chest like a vice. After a few seconds the shock wore off, cold burnt him like fire and every nerve in his body stung horribly, robbing him of air, movement, and even coherent thought. He gasped breathlessly._ It's_ _freezing!_ Panic took hold as John realised he'd lost his bearings already. He could hardly think of anything but the cold and now he was already lost.

"Calm down," he said to himself. He turned around and saw to his relief the boat was behind him. He managed to sigh as he relaxed ever so slightly; he wasn't _completely _screwed, not yet, at least. John turned back away from the boat and forced his arm out of the water in front of him. He kicked out from his hips and started to swim through the frigid waters, fought to keep his face out of the water and in the process swallowed some as he breathed. It was even colder inside his body than it was outside. An icy chill went down his throat and into his stomach, making him feel somehow even colder. _Keep kicking, _he told himself, forcing his brain to fight through the cold and remember how to swim, and not to think about how far a hundred and fifty metres really was. _Keep kicking and reach one arm out at a time._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

The icy water had long since ceased to sting at John. At first the cold had felt like burning and every nerve ending in his body had been on fire, but now he was numb. He kept kicking forwards even though he could no longer feel his legs, and at times he wasn't even sure if they were still working. He pushed through the water and pulled with his arms – they too felt dead and heavy, as if they had turned to lead. He couldn't feel or move his fingers to keep them together, and his progress became even slower and more laborious. It didn't help that he still had his vest on, loaded with ammunition and a day's supply of food, weighing him down and forcing him to work even harder.

It seemed like he'd been swimming forever. He tried to think how far and how long he'd been in the water for, but nothing came to him except a light-headed, dizzy feeling, forcing him to suck in more air. He inhaled a mouthful of water and coughed violently as it went down his throat, freezing him even more from the inside. He kept going, driving himself forward, not daring to look back in case he turned himself around and headed the wrong way; or worse, saw a gleaming chrome monster chasing him through the water.

He continued to swim, feeling more drained than he had ever felt in his life. The cold had sapped all his energy and all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. _A little bit more,_ he told himself. He still couldn't see anything but he knew it would be there soon enough. A few more minutes, and then he could lie down and rest for a little while.

Once more John slid his right hand forward and kicked with his feet. As he pulled his arm back through the water again, this time he felt it brush against something solid. His other hand did the same as he continued to stroke; it felt like mud. He stopped swimming and put his feet down onto solid ground. _Finally!_ The water came up to the middle of his thighs, but at least it was shallow. He looked forward and saw the shore in front of him, only feet away. He stepped forward slowly, wading through the water and sucking in air greedily, wheezing. His chest burned from the effort of just breathing properly, but he continued to plough forward.

He felt something grip him and turned his head to see someone wrapping their arm around his shoulder and helping him forward. As soon as he was on the shore John dropped to his knees and bent over, panting, with his head on the pebbly beach as a wave of sheer exhaustion washed over him. He was done; he had nothing left. All he wanted to do was sleep, get some rest.

Cameron squatted down with him. "Are you okay?" she asked. He had taken longer than she'd expected and it had worried her. She'd seen him almost the entire time as he swam but she'd felt useless, being unable to help him. A few times he'd started swimming the wrong way and she'd called out to him; he'd managed to right his course but she didn't know if he'd understood her instructions or had just moved towards the noise. Either way, he was here now, but he was suffering.

"What?" John asked, almost breathless.

"We have to go." Cameron pulled him up to his feet but John just dropped to his knees again.

"Tired," he mumbled drunkenly, his eyes closed.

"You can't sleep yet," Cameron said as she hauled him up again. As she did so, she checked his vital signs. She could see his skin had lost all colour and he'd turned pale, could feel him shivering violently as she held him up and scanned him, frowning even before she had any results. His pulse was low, breathing shallow and very slow, and most worrying was his skin temperature: _83.33 degrees._

She forced John to stay on his feet, holding him up in a strong grip. "John?" His eyes were closed and his whole body slumped, his chin rested on his chest and she knew if she were to release him he'd fall to the ground. _"John!" _Cameron slapped him hard across the face and slowly he raised his head to look at her.

"Owww," he moaned, looking at her with glazed-over, bloodshot, drunken eyes. "Wha… was tha…"

_"John!" _Cameron snapped and shook him. He roused slightly and started to focus on her. "What's my name?" she asked sternly. John said nothing and tried to turn away from her but his movements were slow and feeble, and he didn't seem to realise she was holding onto him. "What am I?" she added.

John struggled to think, not sure if he even heard her question right. He drew a blank and said nothing for a moment as he tried to remember. _Katie? Kelly… Carrie… _that one sounded closer but still wasn't right… _Cameron! _"Camer… Camemero…" he tailed off, slurring. He knew it but he couldn't get the word out. _Why is she asking? _"Cameron!" he burst out, glad to be able to spit it out.

Cameron frowned and pulled him closer to her. "You have hypothermia," she said slowly so he might understand what she was telling him. "We have to move; I need you to walk with me." She pulled the magazine out of his rifle, ejected the chambered round and reloaded it, made sure the safety was on and handed the weapon back to him without cocking it. She didn't want to risk him accidentally firing and announcing their location to the T-1001.

She moved off first and set the pace, marching away from the lake and into the tree line, moving deeper into the woods. If the T-1001 hadn't seen them then it would most likely follow the closed road around the park in a circuit, looking for them. Their best chance to evade it was to take the harder, longer route.

She blazed the trail ahead and kept her rifle shouldered, watching out for any and all signs of movement. The forest was extremely quiet, however; the animals were either hibernating or just plain hiding from her. She found it ironic that wildlife was always afraid of her when terminators never killed animals, apart from Resistance guard dogs.

She looked back and saw John ambling behind her drunkenly. He swayed slightly and moved slowly, showing no sense of urgency despite what was chasing them. His HK-417 hung loosely from its strap and bounced off his hip without him even seeming to notice. Cameron frowned, knowing this was bad. John had become hyper-vigilant in recent months; he always checked the exits in every new place he went, he was always on edge, and he would normally never be so careless. She knew it was the hypothermia taking its toll but it didn't matter; if the T-1001 appeared now he would be helpless.

Not looking where he was going, John tripped over the root of a large tree and fell flat on his face. Cameron rushed over to him and heard him giggling, his voice muffled by the forest floor. She yanked him up to his feet and shook him, trying to rouse John and make him focus. "I need you to concentrate," she said. "We have to move faster."

"Where… where are we going?" John asked.

"Crater Lake Lodge," she reminded him.

John looked utterly stumped. "Crater Lake; what're we doing there?" _Are we going swimming again?_ The last time had been terrible; he'd never felt so cold, but now he felt a lot warmer and a dip in the lake sounded pretty good. "Let's skinny dip in the lake." He grinned inanely as he pulled his rifle strap over his head and shrugged off his leather jacket.

"No!" Cameron grabbed his arms as he tried to peel off his soaked sweater. He got it halfway up his chest before she stopped him, high enough to see his whole body was still a deathly, pale white.

"I'm really hot," John complained, trying to fight her grip and get out of his clothes. The cold air felt good on his stomach and he wanted nothing more than to cool off. He struggled to get her arms away but couldn't, and Cameron sensed he seemed to have forgotten what she was. She lifted him up, one-handed, into the air and made her eyes glow blue.

"We have to go, _now,"_ Cameron urged him as she put his jacket back on and strapped his rifle to her back. "Remember the T-1001, John. It's going to kill you if it catches you. Move!" She shoved him forward, realising she was going to have to push him every step of the way.

* * *

Patrick quickly marched through the trees as he made his way up the hill that dominated Wizard Island, the conical mass of land two hundred metres from the west shore of the lake. This was the closest hiding place to the dock that they could choose, so the T-1001 searched in case they had decided to conceal themselves here. It was unlikely, as both Connor and Cameron knew of his kind and that the best strategy was to run rather than hide; though he didn't know what they were armed with besides their rifles and it was possible they were laying in ambush.

He hadn't seen in which direction they'd fled to; the spinning screw of the boat had sliced him into hundreds of pieces and it had taken time to reform himself. Dozens of smaller slivers of his form had sank, too small to be able to propel themselves through the water. One piece had been swallowed by a trout that had seemingly confused the portion of poly-alloy for something edible. When he'd located said fish he'd cut it in half to access his missing section. By the time he'd surfaced, complete, he had lost sight of them and was forced to search. Time was a critical factor now; Ronin had sent Caesar to slow down the Vanguards but he didn't know if the T-900 had been successful or not, or to what degree. He had kept his cell phone sealed inside an air pocket inside his body, but it had been shattered during the fight with Cameron. If the Vanguards reached Crater Lake before he found Connor, killing the human would be impossible.

He walked up to the top of the island, roughly three hundred metres above the surface of the lake, and looked down all around him, able to see from all angles simultaneously. He saw no sign of their boat and there was no other way off the island. The water temperature of the lake was below freezing; it would be dangerous for the human to swim in it, but not impossible.

Patrick waited and watched both the island and the lake, searching. Movement caught his attention down by the northern side of the island. He ran down the slope towards it, moving quickly through the trees in his way. He quickly closed the distance on his prey, still unable to see it properly through the trees and the foliage. He saw plants rustle ahead and sprinted towards it, rapidly closing the distance.

A bobcat burst out of hiding and dashed away from the T-1001 as quickly as it could, bounding away through the trees as it fled its unnatural pursuer. Patrick stopped and turned away from the feline, uninterested in the animal. _They're not here._ He walked through the woods to the edge of the island and looked out east towards the rest of the lake. They weren't on the island and there was no sign of them or the boat anywhere. They must have sunk the boat to conceal the direction they'd travelled. It was a very intelligent move and Patrick had expected nothing less from Connor and his cyborg.

He stepped into the lake and morphed his shape, elongating himself back into the eel-like configuration that was best for swimming, and darted throughthe water, swimming around the island back to the western shore and the cabins, making the distance in very little time. Given the freezing water temperature it made sense for them to have doubled back to the same shore they'd left from and minimised the risk of hypothermia.

Back on land he retook human form and walked up the beach, past the pier and through the woods towards the cabins. Even before he reached them he could see the one Connor and Cameron had occupied was completely ablaze; bright orange glowed through the trees and thick smoke billowed up into the air, illuminated by the light of the moon. When he reached the remains of the cabin he saw the fire had spread to their Tacoma, which sat on the ground and burned in an intense conflagration that he could feel even from a distance.

He saw no tracks in any direction but he knew they would likely make their way around the lake, keeping close to the road, where the route would be the easiest. If Connor had swam in the water he would likely be suffering the effects of the cold temperature, and would be unable to move well through the terrain. The road was his most likely choice, so Patrick decided he would follow that route around the lake until he caught up with them.

* * *

She walked through the trees slowly but John struggled to keep up, even with her slow pace. It had gotten worse as they'd marched on and now he was only semi-conscious and seemingly unaware of their surroundings or anything going on around them. John collapsed to the ground in a heap and just lay there, not making a single move to get to his feet and she had to once again pick him up bodily to get him upright. If she were human she might have become frustrated with John but as it was she was a lot more patient – despite the urgency of their situation – and she knew the hypothermia was getting worse.

Cameron pulled, pushed and dragged John with her, forcing him forward every step of the way, though their progress continued to be extremely slow. They could travel faster if she carried him but in his current condition she needed him to move. Even simple walking generated some body heat and kept his circulation going, and she needed him to continue doing that. If she carried him then his body wouldn't work at all and he'd just get colder and colder. She looked back in the direction of the lake and kept watch for any signs of movement. The T-1001 was out there somewhere, hunting for them, and she knew at their current pace it would only be a matter of time until it found them. They wouldn't stand a chance like this.

She moved faster, breaking into a brisk walk and dragging John with her, forcing him to struggle merely to keep up. She needed his heart rate and breathing to increase to keep the blood pumping through his body. _"Faster!" _she snapped, trying to compel him to pick up the pace by himself. Until they reached the lodge the only thing that would keep his hypothermia from getting worse was John himself.

Something wet landed on Cameron's face. She stopped, looked up and another hit her in the eye. She didn't blink but instead wiped it away. She saw white flakes falling all around them. The snow would only deteriorate John's condition.

"Keep moving," she urged John as she continued to drag him with her. "One foot in front of the other," she instructed as she once more set the tempo herself and forced him to keep up.

"Sleep…" John mumbled. She thought perhaps it was an improvement; he hadn't spoken since they left the lake, but a moment later the reality proved to be very different. John fell to his knees and lowered himself to the ground, curling up into a ball.

Cameron sighed. Even machines were not completely patient, and she felt extremely frustrated now as John impeded their progress. It wasn't his fault but that didn't make her feel any better. "You can't sleep," she said, trying to urge him to keep going.

"Sleeeeeep…" he muttered.

His rest was short-lived. Cameron dragged him back to his feet and once again slapped him hard across the face, leaving a visible red mark on his cheek. "If you sleep, _you will die!"_ she warned John, hoping he could understand, but the look of confusion on his face told her otherwise. Again she set off, dragging him with her. "Keep moving," she urged him.

What was left of John's strength was finally sapped completely and his legs gave out from under him, almost pulling Cameron down with him as he fell. Immediately Cameron was down on her knees. _"John!" _She rolled him onto his back and realised his chest wasn't moving; there was no rise or fall. She put her hand underneath his nose but she couldn't feel any exhalation. She grabbed his wrist and scanned, but found nothing; no pulse.

Cameron froze momentarily, still holding John's arm, while myriad horrific thoughts raced through her mind in that instant.

She'd killed him.

She'd forced him into the lake, made him swim through the freezing water. She hadn't gone bad but she'd still killed John Connor. Derek and Sarah had been right; _she'd_ been right. In less than a second she foresaw a future where the world was destroyed, mankind was gone, but she lived on, alone. She couldn't kill herself but without him she had nothing, was nothing. If he was gone she would let the T-1001 find her, take her chip; she didn't care.

* * *

Sarah opened her eyes and winced at the pounding in her skull. She tried to get up but her neck, back, and her arms screamed in pain when she moved. She noticed her helmet had gone and she could feel the air on her face. Despite the chilly air it felt quite nice; _Just a shame the rest of me feels like crap. _She recognised Thor's exposed, featureless metal face hovering over her; the only thing on it apart from his glowing blue eyes was the lightning bolt on under his right eye, which she barely made out in the darkness.

"What happened?"

"We were targeted by a sniper and crashed," Thor said. "I managed to prevent you suffering any serious injuries."

"How'd you manage that?" Sarah asked. She didn't _feel _like she wasn't hurt; she ached all over. She forced herself to raise her head slightly, and then slowly, agonisingly, she used her hands to prop herself up as she sat upright. She checked herself for injuries, prodding methodically all over her body. She winced in pain as she touched her chest, her left arm and her left thigh. She reckoned she'd cracked a couple of ribs and bruised her entire left-hand side.

"I broke your fall," he said simply.

"Thanks…" she said, not feeling at all confident in herself for actually thanking a machine. She'd never once said it to Cameron and she was surprised the moment the word left her lips. She saw Aegir approach them from the tree line on the side of the road, plasma weapon still activated and extended from his forearm. "I couldn't find the sniper," he reported to Thor.

"I don't get it," Sarah confessed. She was seriously confused by this all now. "Whoever – or whatever – the sniper was, he had us dead to rights; why not finish us off?" It wasn't a terminator's typical M.O.; no machine would ever leave its targets alive, especially when they were in such a vulnerable position.

"No pre-Judgment Day sniper rifle would be effective against us," Aegir told her.

"Doesn't surprise me," Sarah quipped. "You look pretty dense."

"We weren't the target," Thor said before Aegir could answer back to Sarah. He helped her up to her feet and then went to inspect the bikes. They were completely mangled; he saw that the front wheel of the one he and Sarah had been riding was completely gone, and the engine in Aegir's had been blown out of place and lay strewn around the road. "It wasn't trying to kill us," he said to her. "The sniper shot the bikes, not us; he wants to slow us down."

Sarah didn't need to ask why. "John," she said, gulping in fear at what that meant. "There's another one trying to kill him." Taking out the bikes was meant to buy that one time to complete its mission. She took a few tentative steps and ignored the pain in her leg as she lifted it up; it was only muscle bruising and it would heal. After the first few steps to test herself she quickened her pace and marched along the hard shoulder, wincing with pain every time she put weight on her bruised left leg.

"We need to get to John," she said as she pushed herself harder. "Do you have any idea what kind of machine is after John?" she asked.

"Most of T-Zero's unit were T-900s," Thor told her.

"Never heard of them," she said.

"Terminators designed to destroy other machines," Aegir explained.

_ "Shit!" _T-888s were bad enough; now she knew there were machines built to kill other terminators. She dreaded to think how Cameron would fare against one of those when she'd barely held her own against Vick and Cromartie in the past. "Can you two take one of these T-900s?" she asked.

"It's what we were built for," Thor said.

"This is too slow." Aegir grabbed Sarah by the back of her shirt and with one hand thrust her over his shoulder as easily as a man picking up a cat.

_"What the hell are you doing?"_ she snapped at him, furious.

"I'm faster than you," he said simply and marched forwards. They moved away from the road into the tree line to avoid being seen by any traffic, and went through the woods, remaining parallel to the road.

_"Put me down_," Sarah growled. Thor nodded at Aegir, silently giving him a command to do as she said. Aegir lowered her to the ground and she glared up at him. "I don't need you to carry me."

Aegir strode past her and continued on his way. "Then keep up," he shot back at her. Thor and Sarah moved together, behind him. She stared at Aegir's bullet-riddled back as he forged ahead several feet in front of them and wondered why these two were so different to any other machine she'd encountered before. She hadn't expected to be called a monkey by one; that was for sure.

As much of an enigma as these two were, they weren't enough to distract Sarah from the pain shooting up the entire left half of her body with every step she took. _Pain can be controlled,_ she told herself as she tried to will herself into ignoring it and focused on just putting one foot in front of the other.

* * *

_Thump…_

Cameron felt the slightest, tiniest throb emanate from John's wrist. She reduced the scope of her entire consciousness down to the point where her fingers touched his skin, focused entirely on it, unaware of anything else around her as those few square centimetres became everything that mattered.

_Thump…_

Cameron had never experienced anything like the relief that washed over her at the feel of such a tiny little beat in his wrist. Even in Mexico, when she'd been more afraid for him than she'd ever been; she remembered the urgency she'd felt at the time, ploughing straight into the police station when Derek Reese had been more cautious. It hadn't mattered to her because without John her life had no meaning. Those sensations, that _feeling,_ paled in comparison to what she felt now.

His pulse was extremely low; only a few beats per minute, but it was there; so slow that even her scan hadn't detected it initially. Cameron pushed aside the relief that John was still alive; that was a condition that could rapidly change at any moment if she didn't get him to the lodge soon, but he was completely incapacitated. She decided her course of action wasn't working; his body was no longer generating any heat and he would be dead within hours if this continued, possibly sooner. She picked him up and slung him over her right shoulder, then began to run through the woods, dodging nimbly between the trees. John groaned quietly for a few seconds and was then silent. She knew he was still alive; she could feel his pulse, but it was fading.

She continued to run awkwardly with all of his weight on her right-hand side. She could have moved faster if she'd spread his weight over both her shoulders but Cameron was still alert to the T-1001 finding them and held her rifle in her left hand, although she knew that if it found them now there was little she could do to save John; she would only buy him a few minutes at most, and he couldn't do anything to save himself.

After almost an hour of running the Crater Lake Lodge finally came into view; a large, four-storey hotel that overlooked the south shore of the lake, set back two hundred feet from the water. Cameron moved to the main entrance and pushed the heavy wooden door open, breaking the lock as she did so. An alarm started to beep and she located the system and ripped it out, crushing it to pieces before she closed the door.

She had no way of knowing if the alarm would cause park rangers to come out to the lodge or not. The ranger who had turned them away from the park entrance had said the roads up here were too dangerous because of the snowfall. If it did it alert them, it would take time for them to arrive to investigate, by which time John should have recovered enough to exit the park through the woods.

Cameron carried John through the lodge; the interior was all polished wood and granite, designed to give the place a rustic charm and atmosphere that was lost on her. She knew that if the T-1001 came here it would approach from the road or the water, so she climbed the staircase to the top floor and selected a room with a lakeside view. They entered a large room with the same décor that was present throughout the hotel, with a large double bed, wardrobe, and a gas fireplace designed to look like an authentic log-burning one. She kept the lights off and drew the curtain back a fraction to look out of the window. She scanned the area but saw nothing approaching.

She carried John's unconscious body into the bathroom, switched the light on and turned on the shower. Unlike the cabins, the lodge seemed to have its own power and water supply, and hot water burst forth from the shower head. She turned the shower off and stripped John naked, running another scan as she worked. His pulse was only thirty beats a minute and his breathing so shallow she had trouble even sensing it.

Once John was completely naked she picked him up, lowered him carefully into the shower and curled him into a foetal position before turning the water back on and setting the temperature to maximum. Cameron took his clothes, went back to the bedroom and turned on the gas fire. She took out the hangers from the wardrobe and hung John's clothes on them. She jammed the metal hooks on the hangers into the wall just above the fire.

Cameron then found a plastic jug, went back into the bathroom, and ran the faucet until the water became hot. She added some cold water so it wouldn't be scalding, filled the jug to the top and took it to the bedroom where she placed it next to the lamp on the bedside cabinet. She had a complete and perfect mental inventory of what was in both her and John's webbing; she pulled out a packet of US Army issue fruit-flavoured hard candy and put it next to the water jug, along with a bar of chocolate. They were both full of sugar and that was exactly what John needed now.

She then put his boots in front of the fire to dry, and went back into the bathroom to check on John; he hadn't moved at all from where she'd placed him and he was still unconscious. She put her hand on him to scan his vital signs and found some improvement but it wasn't enough, and the water temperature was slowly starting to fall. It was likely there was only minimal gas in the tanks, which would be replenished before the park was open, and knew the fire was a higher priority than the shower; there were other ways to warm John's core temperature.

She switched off the shower, picked him up and began towelling him dry. It upset her to see John so helpless, so close to death, especially knowing if he did die she would be responsible. Once he was dry she carried him back into the bedroom, peeled back the thick duvet cover and placed him in bed. She then stripped herself naked, hung her own clothes up by the fire, next to his, and went into the bathroom.

Cameron stood in front of the mirror to assess her injuries. She was covered in welts, deep gashes, and over two-thirds of her face was purple, cut and bruised from being slammed face-first repeatedly into the ground and the cabin.

Her face had not been the only part of her to suffer damage; seven bullet wounds ran diagonally from just above her right breast to her left hip from where John had shot her through the liquid metal, and she had a long stab wound just above her navel. Worse than that was her scalp, though: she could feel a large flap of her scalp hanging loose off her skull where it had been cut into twice in a matter of hours. Her CPU port cover was still sealed but if John hadn't intervened she knew that the T-1001 would have opened it and removed her chip within seconds. She was meant to be his protector but she owed her life to John. Again.

She pushed the edges of her scalp back into place, knowing they would heal within hours. She left the bathroom and sat on the bed next to John.

"John!" She shook him and slapped the side of his face. He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at her; they were glazed over, barely aware of anything around him. Cameron sat him up slightly and his head sagged forward, chin leaning on his chest. Again, Cameron shook him and he roused, ever so slightly.

"_Huh?"_

"Drink this," Cameron handed John the water jug and moved it up to his lips. She tilted his head back, pulled his jaw open and poured some inside. Some deep, innate, animal part of John seemed to be aware of what was happening, and he swallowed on reflex. Cameron slowly continued to pour the warm water down his neck, knowing it would help warm him up from the inside. Ideally she would have had IV drips with warm saline, but she used what she had available.

Once he'd drunk it all down Cameron then took a piece of hard candy and placed it under John's tongue, before she lay him down on his side and pulled the cover over both of them. She lay behind John, spooning him and keeping as much of her body pressed tightly against his back as she could to share her body heat. She wrapped her arms around his chest and lay her head down on the pillow nuzzling the back of his neck and listening for any signs of entry or anything approaching the lodge, and hoping – something terminators never did, but still she found herself doing so – that they had enough time for John to recover and to leave before the T-1001 arrived.

* * *

After years of training and experience drilled into him by his mother, John Connor normally woke rapidly from his sleep and was instantly alert; a survival technique honed in the jungles of South America, so ingrained that it had become a part of him now. Unusually, John slowly stirred and drifted in and out of consciousness. He lay there in a semi-conscious daze without a care in the world for what seemed like forever.

Eventually he opened his eyes and sighed contentedly. He was surprised to find he was in a warm bed with a thick duvet over him, and it although was dark he could still make out enough in the gloomy greyness that the room was unfamiliar. He looked for an exit but couldn't see one from his position; there was an open door but he could make out the outline of a toilet; that definitely wasn't the way out. There was also the window, but without knowing where they were or how high up he had to mark it as only a maybe.

He then noticed the feel of a warm body against his, and a small, slender arm draped around his chest. He knew who it was without looking, and he could feel her smooth skin pressed against his back; enough to tell she was naked. _As am I, _he realised, feeling slightly embarrassed.

John turned around to face her in bed. She pulled her arm back and remained still. Even in the dark he could tell she was looking at him. "Where are we?" he asked, "Why are we naked?"

"What do you remember?" Cameron asked him, seeing the look of confusion on his face.

"Jumping into the lake… then just cold… and now this."

"You were suffering from hypothermia," Cameron told him. "You collapsed. I carried you to the Crater Lake Lodge, broke in, and put you in bed. You're naked because I took your wet clothes off and hung them to dry."

"And _you're _naked because…" he prompted.

"To share body heat," Cameron explained. "You nearly died," she added, with a hint of sadness in her voice. "I don't know what I would have done if you did." John remembered what she'd said before, about how she didn't want to talk about him dying one day. He was her mission, he realised. By her very nature he was her be all and end all; he was literally everything to her. He felt slightly choked when he thought about it; there was no way he deserved that kind of devotion but she gave it nonetheless. He leaned towards her and kissed her again, picking up where they'd been interrupted in the cabin.

Cameron kissed him back and closed her eyes, copying John. He deepened the kiss, reached down to her hips and pulled her closer to him, pressing their bodies together as he let out a contented, pleasured moan and slid a hand between them to cup one of her breasts. She leaned into him but felt John growing hard against her. She broke the kiss and gently pushed him away.

"We should stop," she said, getting out of bed and standing upright.

John looked at her, worried that he'd read her wrong. _Maybe she doesn't want that._ "I'm sorry," he said, feeling more awkward by the second.

"If we continue we won't leave for some time, and the T-1001 is still out there." Cameron crossed the room and picked up her clothes from where she'd hung them up, and quickly dressed herself. She passed John's clothes to him and he got out of bed and started to put them on, thinking about what had just happened.

Her words echoed in his mind: _'If we continue we won't leave for some time.'_ He knew what that meant. _There it is,_ he thought, _she's thought about it, too._ He was surprised, but also relieved. He wondered if she would actually get anything out of it if they'd had sex; if she could enjoy it. He pushed the thought aside; it was something for another time, when they weren't being hunted by a liquid metal killing machine.

Once they were both dressed John picked up his rifle, unloaded it and pulled back the cocking handle to release the chambered round. He stuck that back into the magazine, checked in the meagre light and with his fingers to make sure the chamber was empty and clear of any debris from the lake, then switched the safety off, aimed at the wall and pulled the trigger. The weapon clicked as he dry-fired, then put the magazine back into place, cocked the weapon and put the safety on. "Ready when you are," he said as he put his webbing vest on and pulled his jacket on over it.

Cameron opened the door slowly and poked her head out into the corridor, looking both ways and seeing nothing. She knew that the T-1001 was able to mimic anything and it could be part of the walls, ceiling or floor right now. The fact that it hadn't immediately emerged to attack them was evidence enough that it wasn't in this corridor. They moved almost silently past the other rooms and emerged onto the landing. There was a single elevator and also a flight of stairs leading down. Both of them knew which option was the best: Cameron, because the former option would create too much noise and advertise their presence if the machine was here; and John remembered the T-1000 almost killing them in the Pescadero elevator and knew he didn't want to be trapped in such a confined space with something like that. If it came to it he wanted to at least be able to run, have a chance even if it wasn't much of one.

They both descended the staircase quickly but quietly, Cameron leading the way and John taking the rear, and made their way down to the front foyer. Through the windows they could see snow falling heavily from the dark, pre-dawn sky. Just looking at it made John shiver with cold all over again, but he knew that it could also save their life; if it continued to snow like it was then it might cover their tracks and make it harder for the T-1001 to follow them.

"What happened to the alarm?" John saw the shattered pieces of plastic on the ground and the ruins of a keypad scattered around. Wires trailed from the wall where it had been ripped off.

"I did," Cameron replied simply. She hadn't seen any other entrance to the lodge apart from the front door; she'd prefer to have left by another exit but didn't know the layout and was unwilling to lose time looking for one and risk the T-1001 finding them. She led John out of the doorway, closed it behind them, and quickly they skirted round the front of the building, turning around a corner to the side. Both of them kept their head on a swivel and looked out for any sign of movement, but there was nothing around. They made their way to the back of the lodge; Cameron reasoned that it was most likely the liquid metal terminator would approach from the direction of the lake, which faced the front of the hotel, and she wanted to keep the building between them and it in case it approached while they were still there.

"Run for the tree line," Cameron instructed. She pushed John forward and ran alongside him, heading south for the woods a little over a hundred and fifty feet behind the lodge. They deliberately moved away from the road that led to the parking lot they'd passed on the way in. It was the easiest route and therefore the most likely one they'd take. John knew they had to do the last thing that the T-1001 would expect. No straight lines, no easy options.

Once they were through the tree line they slowed down to a jog and moved through the woods. John still felt tired from his ordeal in the lake but he pushed himself, knowing what would happen if the machine caught up with them. After several minutes they again slowed down to a steady but hurried march. It would take longer but it was also quieter, and it allowed John to get his breath back. It dawned on him that going through the woods at night at a lake, miles from anywhere and being stalked by a killing machine intent on literally slaughtering him was like they were in a horror movie. _All we need is a stoner, a prom queen, and a kid in a wheelchair to show up, and we're pretty much living 'Friday The 13__th'__. _Except, John decided, he'd take a psycho in a hockey mask over a T-1001 any day of the week. His life was far scarier than any horror movie.

"Did that terminator seem a little odd to you?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"How do you mean?" Cameron inquired.

"How it was when you fought it," he explained, "when it got the upper hand, I mean." He looked at Cameron but she just had a blank expression with a slightly tilted head. He knew that face: she didn't get it. "I told you about the T-1000 that came back to kill me when I was twelve, right?"

"Yes," Cameron said. Future-John had told her in detail; in 2027 he'd still had nightmares about it.

"When that one got the upper hand on the T-800 protecting me, it came straight for me. It didn't mess around. But this one went for you like the first one did after me." He'd seen it going for her chip; it didn't need to do that to stop her from fighting, and he'd never seen an enemy machine try to go for her CPU like that before. "I think it was after you as well," he said.

Cameron remained silent as they marched. She'd never considered that; she'd only thought about keeping John safe. It made sense to her; when she and Derek had been attacked by Kaliba they had attempted to extract her chip; it was likely that they would try again. They would want to use her CPU to gather intelligence or possibly even reprogram her against John. She found that possibility very disturbing; she'd rather be terminated.

* * *

Patrick entered the lodge through the main entrance and looked up at the floors above from the foyer. According to the information on the front desk there were seventy-two guest rooms, plus service areas, on four floors. It would take a long time to search. The T-1001 turned silver and melted down into a puddle on the ground, widening outwards like a spill on the floor.

The chrome mass then split into four pieces, which then reshaped themselves and started to rise up from the ground. They took shape: two arms, two legs, and a head each. By the time the process was finished, four perfectly-formed miniature Patricks stood in the foyer. Three of them ran up the stairs and took a floor each to search while the last one remained on the ground level and marched through to investigate the communal and service areas.

The fourth mini-Patrick dashed ahead of the other two on the staircase and quickly made it to the top floor. He moved through the upper storey of the lodge. Through the windows in the corridor he could see the lake bathed in light from the slowly rising sun, casting an orange hue over the water. He ignored the scenery outside and kicked a door open, quickly moving into the room to check. It was a large room with a double bed and two twin singles, with a lakeside view.

The beds were perfectly made, the floor vacuumed, and everything was clean and tidy. There was no sign anyone had been in the room recently. To be sure, Patrick crossed the room and checked the bathroom, finding nothing there either. The next three bedrooms also yielded no results.

Mini-Patrick opened the last door without having to force it, and stepped into the room. Instantly he detected heat traces; the other rooms had been much colder but there was residual warmth in the air. The sheets were crumpled; someone had slept in them recently. Considering the lodge was closed for winter, the terminator knew his quarry had been here. Instantly, his other three quarters knew what he did, and moved through the lodge to his location.

While they were en route, he crossed to the opposite room, facing away from the lake, and elongated his body so he was tall enough to see out of the window, leaving him looking skinny and gangly. The parking lot was empty, covered in snow that stretched to the tree line. He scanned the area and looked for any signs of them.

He saw it. Forty-five degrees left from his location: two pairs of footprints in the snow. Mini-Patrick opened the window and jumped outside, plummeting to the ground and splatting into a silver blob in the parking lot. Seconds later the other three copies of him emerged from windows on the other floors, landed in the lot with him and they converged, forming back into a single human form.

Whole and in one piece again, Patrick sprinted across the open ground to the tree line. Within seconds he was under cover of the trees and the snow became thinner, but their tracks were still visible. He continued to run at speed, following their footprints in the ground. Time was again a factor; he needed to catch up before the snowfall covered them and he lost the trail. It was seventeen miles in a straight line to the highway just outside the park: he knew that would be their destination. The T-1001 accelerated and ran as fast as he could, like a predator chasing its prey, closing in for the kill.


End file.
